


Death of a Hero

by what-is-a-fanfic-author (naxxerie)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Alfred Pennyworth, BAMF Jason Todd, BAMF Tim Drake, Batboys, Batdad, Batfam are all addicted to alfred's cookies, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Batfamily-centric (DCU), Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne Whump, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce-centric, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian tries humor, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bruce Wayne, I need more Hurt Bruce fic so i made one, Jason Todd Feels, Jason Todd is a Batfamily Member, Jealous Batfam, Jealous brothers, Major Character Injury, Mother Hen Dick Grayson, Official caffeine addict Tim, Overprotective Batboys, Panic Attacks, Protective Batfamily (DCU), Protective Jason Todd, Protective Siblings, Protectiveness, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, You can't change my mind, batfam, batkids, he fails, protective batkids, vulnerable bruce wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 58,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21679105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naxxerie/pseuds/what-is-a-fanfic-author
Summary: "Life was cruel for Bruce. Always has been, always will be."After an encounter with an unknown criminal, the Batman came to a frightening realization - is his existence really necessary? Bruce starts to self-destruct and Batman stopped patrolling at night. His mind became an echo of the grief he had to bury in order to become Batman.Meanwhile, his family tries to deal with the consequences.If this is too much angst for you, check out my other batfam fic: Gotham Knights. ^^ It still has hurt!bruce in it, but more fluffy hehe
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 465
Kudos: 632





	1. A Realization

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

**Death of a Hero**

It was late, as late as all their patrol could be. Bruce – no, _Batman_ – stood atop the Wayne tower, arguably the tallest building in Gotham. He stared at the city, _his_ city, the one he had sworn to protect. He felt its sadness, its despair – or perhaps that is just _his._

Doubt found its way to his core. He had been wearing the cowl for God only knows how long and still crime never seemed to go away. People scream in fear. They don’t feel any safer, even now with his presence, with his shadow overlooking the city. Why?

_Perhaps the city never needed me._

He saw movement from just below the alleyway. Someone is getting mugged. He used his grappler and pulled himself down. His shadow fell upon the criminal. The woman – gods almighty, not another – face lit up upon seeing him. “Batman!” her fragile voice screamed. He, with all his practiced grace, fell down the alleyway, putting himself behind the criminal. The criminal – only a _teen!_ – looked back at him, and his face hardened. “Batman!” his voice, unlike hers, was filled with so much anger. For interfering with his crime?

The woman took the opportunity and ran.

“Tell me, _Batman,”_ he sneered, as if the name is poison. “Where does your line go?”

 _What does he mean?_ Bruce – no, _Batman_ – questioned. What line? The line that decides who to die and who to live? The line that separates him from the other criminals? The line that he could not cross less he destroy himself?

 _Not even for me?_ Jason’s voice echoes in his head.

 _What if it had been me? Huh? Would you avenge me?_ Damian’s voice soon followed.

The criminal attacked, threw himself at the Batman. It was only through his hardened training that Bruce – no, _Batman_ goddamn it – was able to dodge. He dodged to his left and lifted his arm to block his enemy’s punch.

“You killed him!” The criminal screamed.

_Kill?_

_Killed?_

_But Batman never kills._

Bruce did not answer. He left his mind blank. He told himself it was to block out and focus entirely on the fight. _I have to end this fast._ But that would be a lie. Only fights like this, when adrenaline became his oxygen, did his mind ever silence. Only when he was being the _batman,_ did he ever have peace.

_That’s why it’s addicting, isn’t it?_

He punched him. The criminal’s nose started to bleed. “Shit,” he cursed, as any teenager would. _Gods, how old is he?_

“You killed my father, Batman. You throw him in the prison with the lot that _hates_ him! Do you even care?” He kept on attacking Bruce, relentlessly. Bruce kept on hitting him back, with more force than the last. But the _child_ would not stand down.

“He died because of you! Because of what _you_ did!” The teen swore, he could no longer stand straight, yet he threw his whole body at him. Bruce twisted his arm and forced him to kneel. The teen spluttered blood. He sniffed and he started to cry. The pain of his lost was evident on his tears – they were not there to mourn the lost of a fight, but the lost of _someone important._ “He died. Because of you. _You_.”

Bruce grunted and threw him on the floor. He was met with more sobs. Bruce did not reply. He took his grappler and used it to lunge himself at the top of the building. Up there, he looked back at the teen.

_Your fault._

There was a small part of his that screamed that the child was being irrational. Causality – a fallacy of reasoning. Yet, the biggest part of him screamed that it’s _true._

Why did Jason die? _Because he made him Robin._

Why did Damian die? _Because he made him Robin._

Why does Robin exist? _Because Batman made him._

Who was at fault?

_You._


	2. A Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More hurt :(

Bruce came back to an empty house. The house was lit with nothing but the reflected light of the moon, shining brightly in the quiet, lonely sky. He decided to forgo entering through the cave and did so through the front door. He did not want to dwell on the fact that he expected someone to greet him, like a normal suburban father who just got back. Perhaps a child would run into his arms, laughing, and welcome him. “Your home!” he would gleefully tell him, as if it was the greatest gift he had received.

But that is not the life that he chose to have, that is not the life that he made of himself.

“Alfred?” His voice echoed around the house, reminding him of its emptiness.

No one answered.

He tried not to panic and quickly sent a text to Oracle. _Alfred?_ – it reads.

 _He had some last-minute shopping, he told me. Left a note, he said. –_ Oracle replied.

His phone rang. He did not pick up.

He went to the kitchen and as Oracle said, there was a note in the table. It told him where his butler went and reminded him to eat the dinner he prepared beforehand. Bruce does not feel like eating; however, his appetite was pretty much nonexistent these days.

He went upstairs. He wanted to drop his worn-out body in his bed, but his room was placed at the end of the hall, and each door before, belongs to each of his children. It was silly, but he decided to check on them anyway.

He opened Dick’s room. It was empty.

What did he expect anyway? Dick had already told him that he would stay in the Bludhaven. He had never step foot in the Manor for a year now. He only went home in Christmas. Or Alfred’s birthday. He was busy, he understands. His place may not be as chaotic as Gotham, but it still has its own share of criminals.

He closed the door and proceeded to Jason’s. Like Dick’s, it was empty.

He tried not to imagine Jason’s battered and bloody body laying atop the bed. Yet, every time he blinks, that is all he could see. There may come a day when Jason may forgive him, but he doubts he could ever forgive himself.

Jason’s death was the hardest for him. He was only a teenager. Jason had plans – dreams. He wanted to go to college and pursue a Literature degree.

And he took all of that away from him. He gave him a home. But at what price? He forced him to a life that he was not prepared to do, just because he felt lonely. He wanted Jason to fill in the shoes that Dick left behind. But just as Dick was, Jason was not prepared for it.

He was only a teen for god’s sake! A teen – like the criminal he fought earlier.

_“He died. Because of you.”_

His words were like gospel in his ears – echoing, always reminding him.

Jason was beaten to death by Joker. He suffered for hours waiting for him – Batman, his mentor – Bruce, his _father_ , to rescue him. But did he?

Was Batman able to rescue his Robin?

Was Bruce able to rescue his son?

_“You killed him!”_

Perhaps the hollowness of the Manor and his soul, perhaps they are all his own doing.

He pushed too hard. He wanted desperately to have a companion. Someone to fill in the empty space that his parents left behind.

 _“You killed – “_ them.

Oh gods. Bruce’s knees gave up on him. He had to held tightly on the door, less he’ll fall on the ground.

Had his parents’ death also because of him?

He wanted to go see the Zorro movie that night. Gods, he pleaded his parents. He remembered them denying him, telling him that they’re afraid. There’s a bit of news about some ‘crazy’ people stabbing some gals in alleyways just because they could. But Bruce insisted. He wanted to see it, so he could talk with his friends about it. His parents did not want to, but he wanted.

Oh gods, does his selfishness knows no bound?

 _“You killed –“_ them.

It was true. Had he not insisted, they would not have gone to the cinema. They would not have walked on that alleyway. Had he not been _there_ , his father would not have frightened the criminal. His mother would not have fought for the pearls that his father and he gave her for her as a birthday present. Had he not been _there,_ his father would not have been shot protecting _him._ Had he not been _there,_ his mother would have been shot protecting _him._

Gods, it was true.

_“—died. Because of you.”_

Gods, why did it take him this long to realize?

_“You.”_

He stood up. He does have enough strength to open Tim’s door and see how empty it was. Nor does he have enough strength to see Damian’s room – and remember what caused his _own_ son’s death.

Had he not learnt enough from his mistake with Jason? Why did he make his _own_ son Robin? Why did he force his own son to a life that would ultimately took him away from him?

Bruce opened the door to his room and locked it. He collapsed on it. He shielded his own face with his hands, as if it could stop the tears that kept on coming.

It was all his fault.

Everything he touches, die.

Everyone he loves, die.

It was all his fault.

Had he not been there, had he died in that alleyway, perhaps they would have been _safe_. Perhaps his sons would have had a better life.

But fate is cruel. It let him – _him,_ a poison that takes and takes without remorse – live.

The thought broke him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There would be some comfort next chapter I promise!


	3. Half Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff for you <3

Alfred was exhausted when he went back the house. Earlier, he had managed to contact Bruce’s sons – Dick, Jason, and Tim, all of which hid in their own apartments – and managed to convince them to come back in the Manor for breakfast. He had expected some resistance, like every time. But he was surprised to have them say ‘yes’, which is why he had to rush back to the grocery, drove all the way to the next still open grocery to buy some ingredients.

Honestly, even if they were not related by blood, they could just as well be stubborn as his Master Bruce. Why did they even buy their own apartments when he knew that they sneak back inside the Manor to sleep anyway? Pfft. They thought they could hide that fact from him? He knew that those little lovely pests sneak back almost every single night to sleep in their own private rooms. Perhaps, only for an hour, then they’ll sneak back out. Sometimes, he even caught them opening Bruce’s door to watch him sleep.

Oh gods, there are tears forming in his eyes.

Sometimes, Jason would sneak inside Bruce’s room to _misplace_ something – like his father’s pen, or the frames he had on displace just so he could irk his father. Petty, really. But it does its job. Alfred has to hide his smile every time Bruce stare too long at his pens or the frames because there is an itch in the back of his head screaming that something was wrong, “It’s all here Alfred! Did you do some cleaning?” he would ask. Alfred would reply with a casual lie, “Yes, Master Bruce.”

And Bruce would leave it at that.

Sometimes, Dick would come to visit when its late afternoon or evening, when he _knew_ that Bruce would not be at the house. And would take a quick shower at his father’s bathroom, soaking himself with his father’s shampoo or cologne. He would smile and wink at Alfred before stealing some of his father’s father cookies in the kitchen. He would sneak outside before Bruce would come. “Where are my cookies, Alfred?” He would ask. And Alfred would reply with another casual lie, “Perhaps you’ve finished them already, Master Bruce?”

Bruce would pause, “I did?”.

Then Alfred would try to divert the issue. “It is alright, Master Bruce. I shall bake you some more.”

Sometimes, Tim would come and mess with Bruce’s personal computer. Alfred would see him behind his father’s giant computer table, typing away in his father’s computer. He would bypass all security measures and improve them with his own. Then he would copy and creepily stalk all the people that Bruce had interacted with as _Bruce._ He was overprotective in that way. Afterwards, he would try and sneak to the kitchen (and Alfred would pretend to clean off the living room to give him an opportunity to do so) and steal some of Bruce’s coffee grains (of all things Master Tim!). One time, he even stole his father’s coffee maker. Alfred had to lie and tell him that he accidentally broke it. “It’s alright, Alfred. I’ll buy another one.”

Seriously, did Bruce raise a bunch of thieves? Why can’t his sons just _ask?_

Damian was less vocal, weeks after his death and resurrection. He wasn’t as demanding as he was before, but he was still just as arrogant. When his father was not around, Damian would sneak into his father’s room and lie in his father’s bed. He would only stay for ten minutes. When Alfred saw him, Damian blushed and told him that he got lost. “The room were too similar. I was a bit confused.” Damian said. Alfred nodded and pretended to understand his dilemma even though Bruce’s room was devoid of Titus’s bed. The next time he saw Damian in Bruce’s room, he pretended to have been lost too.


	4. Damian v Alfred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens the following morning.

The following morning, Alfred woke up early to prepare the kitchen for his master’s sons’ arrival. After putting more than enough cookies to feed an entire town in the gigantic oven, Alfred went to Damian’s room to wake him up.

“I am already awake, Pennyworth.” Damian said, already dressed.

“Please, Master Damian, call me Alfred,” he replied.

Damian smiled, with his signature smug one. “What would I call my cat then?”

It was only through enough years suffering from Bruce’s rebellious teenage years did he manage to remain with a stoic, bored expression. “Call him Pennyworth.”

Damian raised an equally bored eyebrow.

Okay, time to bring in the big guns. “Or else, I would withhold your cookie privilege.”

Damian looked as if the world had stopped functioning. Seriously, his master’s sons were so dramatic. “You wouldn’t! I would tell Grayson of this injustice!”

“Then consider his privileges revoke.” Alfred said, clearly challenging him.

Damian’s resolve crumbled. He knew even his soft-heartened older brother would not forgive him if he did not get his daily dosage of Alfred Pennyworth’s marvelously, devilishly, delicious cookies.

 _That’s right, fear me, mortal._ Alfred has his own dramatics. But he kept it on his head.

“Fine…Alfred,” Damian said. He kneel to his cat. “I’m sorry little cat, but you would have to do with Pennyworth. For now.”

“Better. Your brothers are waiting in the kitchen, Master Damian.” Alfred said.

Damian nodded. Then he paused. “Brothers?”

Alfred nodded. “Yes. They promised to be home, this morning.”

“Why? Was it Father’s birthday?” Damian asked.

“No.” Alfred answered, he turned towards Bruce’s room.

“Then why—” his question was halted by Alfred’s unamused look.

Damian took that as a warning and quickly shut his mouth. He swallowed down his fear. “Ah yes, kitchen. Okay.” He nervously signaled for his dog. “Come on Titus.” He walked towards the Kitchen. “Let’s see if you can sneak a bite to Jason’s ass.”

Damian disappeared downstairs.

Alfred smiled, heart warming with the excitement of seeing Bruce’s face when he realized that all his sons would be at home to have breakfast with him. He turned towards Bruce’s room and knocked once.

There was no answer.

He knocked again.

“Master Bruce?”

He checked the door. It was locked. He knocked again.

Decided, he picked out the key from his pocket and opened the lock. He pushed the door opened and went inside. He could hear Bruce’s soft snores from the doorway. It made him smile.

Alfred walked towards the bed and took in the innocence of Bruce’s face. It took him to those times when he had to softly caress his son’s? face when there was no one to do so. He would hug Bruce when he got nightmares and would not leave his side until he could go back to sleep.

Seeing him sleeping so peaceful made his heart flutter. He was proud of what Bruce had grew up to be. Yes, there were hard times, when Bruce had gone down the dark road, after Jason’s death, when he thought that Bruce would never recover from. Then come Tim, and it helped him get back to his feet because he had another reason to do so.

Those kids thought that they merely benefit solely on their relationship with Bruce.

Not knowing that Bruce needed them as much. Without them, Bruce would not have come to become the strong man that he is today. Bruce would not admit it to himself, but he needed to _take care_ of someone. He needed people to rely on him, it gave him strength. It’s an instinct that he took after his mother. Martha Wayne, who spent most of her life helping other people in her own little ways. The Wayne just has this instinct to _protect_ other people. That has always been in their blood. And Alfred could not put into words how proud he is that their son is living up to their name.

He was a bit worried that Bruce would never recover from Damian’s death. But he was glad that he had his own family now, that he won’t have to be alone, to take that burden.

Because as much as Bruce wants to help people, he also need help on his own. He also needs people to _protect_ him, even from himself.

Bruce has a frightening self-destructive behavior. And hopefully the monster would not take its shape in the following days.

No, Alfred would make sure that the monster would be locked in his makeshift prison. It would not take form. It would not endanger his _son_ again. The monster would not come and try to take his son _again._ Once has been alarming. Twice has been scaring. He would not permit for a third time. He would do everything to stop the monster from devouring Bruce again.

_But what if he was too late?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some fluff on the next chapter don't worry! :)


	5. Battle Royale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> batfam engaged in a battle royale for Alfred's cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another fluff!

Alfred gently wake up Bruce.

Bruce’s eyes slowly blinked open. He stared at Alfred, but he remained quiet.

Alfred nodded. “Master Bruce. Breakfast is ready.” He said, pulling back the curtains. Silence answered him. “Master Bruce?” He turned towards him.

Bruce was staring at his figure, but he was not looking _at_ him. His gaze was unfocused, as if he was lost somewhere. He did not blink, nor acknowledge what Alfred said.

“Your sons are waiting for you,” Alfred said, hoping that would elicit some response.

Bruce merely nodded and buried his head back in his bed.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred called out again, peering towards him. “Are you alright?”

Bruce remained quiet. He was staring at nothing and everything all at once.

“Are you still tired? Should I prepare you a breakfast in your bed?” Alfred asked. He was getting nervous. Bruce was _never_ this quiet. This was getting into dangerous territories. Silence was one of his symptoms. He was only met with silence twice, and both times did not end well.

Bruce shook his head. He buried himself with his blanket.

Alfred remained stoic. He did not want to panic. Perhaps the master is just not feeling well. “Very well,” Alfred said. “I shall prepare you a glass of milk and some cookies, nevertheless,” he said, walking towards the door. He looked back one last time before closing the door.

* * *

“Alfred?” Dick said, as soon as he saw the butler came in. He was trying to push his little brother from getting his cookies. “I tried to hide them but—” his voice was cut short as Jason went in with the commotion and took the bowl from him.

“Give me those Todd!” Damian yelled as he unveiled his sword.

 _Where the hell did Damian hid those?!_ Dick asked himself.

Jason smiled before eating three cookies at once.

“TODD!” Damian yelled before attacking him. Dick immediately pulled a coffee-deprived Tim out of the way just as Jason blocked Damian’s attacks with his foot. He pushed him away with his other foot, while both of his hands were preoccupied with consuming the cookies at inhumanely speed.

“Jason!” Dick yelled in anguish. He wanted to be the older responsible brother but damnit those cookies are his favorites. He maneuvered towards Jason using the Kitchen sink and took the bowl from him. He somersaulted towards the living room – using all his gymnastic skills. And balances himself on top of the bookshelf. He started munching over the cookies.

Meanwhile, Damian was still engaged with Jason, trying to get him back from kicking him and simultaneously humiliating him by fighting with _only_ his feet! Damian used his sword to attack him, but he aimed only at his lower half, since he did not want to accidentally kill or maim his older brother. Jason, smug bastard that he is, dodged him and attacked with his feet. He crouched down and kicked his feet, unbalancing Damian, then kicked his stomach, sending him flying towards the living room – and into Tim.

“Ooofff” Dick said. He looked down at the bowl, only two cookies left.

Tim’s eyes blazed with fury. “I. NEED. COFFEE.” He screamed before attacking anyone close to him – which is Damian.

“Drake!” Damian screamed while dodging him. “You!” He dodged a punch. “Useless” he dodged a kick. “Shit—”

“Language!” Dick screamed atop the bookshelf, eating the second to the last cookie.

“Jason!” He dodged another punch. “Is at fault!” he screamed, attacking him with the dull end of the sword. Tim blocked it and punched him again. Damian got hit but he was quick to counter.

 _One more._ Dick thought. After he finished this cookie, he would play mediator. He stared at the cookie, licking his lips. He was about to put in his mouth when a book flew on his head. His reflex saved him, and he dodged, but at the expense of the cookie. “No!!!” he screamed as he saw the cookie fall – into Jason’s opened mouth. His arm was outstretched – trying to take it back.

“No!!” Damian yelled back, launching himself.

But both are too late. Jason swallowed the cookie whole. And smiled. “Too late losers.”

“You do realize that I baked more, don’t you?” Alfred’s words made them stop. On his hands were a tray of newly baked cookies. “You don’t have to engage in some battle royale for it.”

Dick was the only one who had the gal to look embarrassed.

“It was Jason’s fault.” Damian quickly said before walking towards Alfred to get one.

Alfred moved the tray away from him. “Put the sword away. And wash your hands.” Alfred commanded.

Damian nodded before doing as told.

“Please tell me the coffee is done,” Tim said weakly as he seemingly pulling his weight towards the dining table. He looked very similar to a dying man in need of some water to keep living.

“Yes. Now please go to the dining area, peacefully.” Alfred said before going back to the kitchen to prepare the breakfast.

All three nodded and went as told.

They were all seated on the table when Damian went back. He took the seat next to Tim. Dick and Jason sat on the other side.

“Where’s the old man?” Jason was the first to break the silence.

Tim looked up from his coffee.

Alfred remained quiet, he stared at the plates of cookies that he had prepared. But his eyes remain distant. Memories of the days of which he tried to pry away Bruce’s arms from hurting himself flashed quickly behind his eyes. The pain of seeing someone hurt so much and being unable to do something about it, to _heal_ him, was growing within him. How can you save someone from himself?

“Master…” he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. “Master Bruce said he was feeling unwell.”

Silence followed soon. The boys exchanged looks behind his back. Alfred took a deep breath and calmed himself. It was not the _same_. Bruce is getting old, perhaps the years of fighting Gotham’s worse of the worse is starting to take a toll on him. That’s it. Bruce is _just_ exhausted. He was _just_ tired. There’s nothing to be worried about.

Right?

_Right._

He put on his usual mask – indifferent, calm. There’s no use worrying his (grandkids?) Master Bruce’s children ( _all_ of them are _his_ ). He placed the newly baked cookies on the table. He took everyone’s glasses and filled them with milk. “He came home later than usual, last night. He was tired, that is all.” He reminded everyone, but he could see the worry behind their eyes.

“Uhm…” Dick looked away from him.

“Tt.” Damian was the first to move. He knew what his older brother wants and knew that it’s silly of him to ask for permission. Of course, Alfred would not be averse to the idea of it. He took the big plate of cookies and hopped down from his highchair (he insisted on it being the highest) and balanced the plate in his hands. “Drake. Be useful and take my glass of milk as well.” He started walking out the kitchen and up towards the bedrooms.

“What? Where exactly?” Tim asked, but took his brother’s glass of milk, his glass of milk, and his tumbler of coffee.

Jason did not even speak as he stood up and grabbed his milk and the whole pitcher of it (out of all the bat kids, he’s the only who _actually_ likes milk – which is why he’s the tallest). Dick smiled and soon followed.

Alfred looked at their retreating backs and felt a tug in his heart.

Yes, it’ll be alright. Because he won’t be alone now. Perhaps with their help, they can save Bruce from the monster that appeared the night his parents die.

It’ll be alright.

_Right?_

* * *

Dick ran out just as Damian tried to kick their father’s door. He opened the door and winked at his little brother. “Let’s try _not_ to cause some damage, okay? Dad’s resting.”

“Tt.” Damian said, before walking pass his oldest and towards his father.

True to Alfred’s statement, their father was sleeping in his bed. He did not even flinch when they opened the door – a testament to how tired he must have been. Usually, you can never sneak pass the Bat. Damian placed the plate in his father’s bed and pushed himself to sit on it. He stared at his father’s stomach as it rises and fall. He’s alive. His father is alive.

He then took a cookie and started to eat, all the while taking a few drinks of his milk.

He looked up and saw his other brothers watching him. “Are you not going to eat?” he asked, mouth full of cookies.

Dick’s mother hen mode kicked in. “Don't talk with your mouth full!” he whispered, as he made his way to sit beside his youngest. He also took a cookie and finished his milk with one drinking. Tim shrugged before going to the other side of the bed and sitting. He grabbed for a cookie with his left and opened his phone with his right. He casually tried to penetrate the Batcave’s system.

Jason placed the pitcher in the table beside his father’s bed before casually walking around the room, looking for something to misplace. What about the folder that is innocently existing by his father’s desk? He walked towards it and moved it by an itch. There – _perfect._ He smiled smugly before walking towards his brothers and sitting beside Tim. He intentionally bumped him before getting a cookie. Tim glared at him with pure malice. Jason merely smiled back.

They silently consume their breakfast cookies, perched on their father’s bed – like little birds guarding the nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before the hurt >:)


	6. He tries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce woke up to live his life as Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! please read the end notes. thank you. :)

**The next day.**

Bruce was forced to open his eyes when the sun’s light struck him from the window. His muscles felt heavy, his mind is slowly waking up, yet he does not feel like removing himself from the comfort of his bed. He slowly breathe in, slowly breathe out. Breathe in, hold it for four seconds, then breathe out. Just like what his therapist taught him when he was nine.

Breathe in.

_Jason’s bloodied body laying on the ground. Bruises littered his fragile body. He was beaten to death. He was left to die. He's dead, Bruce. He died as a Robin. Not as your son._

Hold it for four seconds.

_His parents’ blood littering the concrete ground. He screamed until he couldn’t. But it won’t bring them back. He shook them, he tried waking them up. But they aren’t breathing. They aren’t breathing._

Breathe out.

His eyes adjusted to the morning light. He could hear the silence of his empty bed. He willed himself back to sleep, but his mind refuses to shut down. It was always noisy – his mind can’t help but to run down all the things he must do, as Bruce Wayne the CEO of Wayne Inc, and as Batman, the vigilante-turned hero of Gotham.

But never Bruce Wayne as father? For how many years did he neglect to fill that role?

No wonder his sons chose to live cities away. Who would want a father like him anyway? He’s broken beyond repair – physically, mentally, and emotionally. How could he care for someone when he could not take care of himself?

He yearns for love, for companionship – but he, himself, failed to give it.

He’s a pest. _That takes and takes without remorse._ He takes but he never _gives._

_Does his selfishness know no bound?_

He shifted and stared at his bed’s ceiling. For once, he wanted the noise back in his mind. But it’s so _empty._

His mind is empty, yet it’s deafening. No thoughts echoes in his mind, yet it felt like it’s filled with so much.

 _Breathe in._ He started to panic. He recognized this. He knew that this was a symptom of his greatest enemy trying to make its appearance.

 _Hold it for four seconds._ Why can’t it be more?

 _Breathe out._ He opened his eyes and just _stare._

A knock on the door. “Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice echoed on his room.

He did not answer. He does not want to.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred knocked again. There’s silence for five seconds before his door opened. Alfred entered. “Your breakfast is ready, Master Bruce.”

Bruce stared at Alfred before nodding his head. It took a great amount of will to get up from his bed, but he managed.

“You slept for a whole day, Master Bruce,” Bruce could hear a tint of worry in Alfred’s voice. Instead of feeling wanted, as he should, Bruce just felt like a burden. Even Alfred was troubled because of him. Why can’t he do that right? Even for Alfred? He already failed his sons, why must he fail his adoptive father too?

_Father? Your father is dead._

Bruce closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked at Alfred before nodding. His lips still shut tight.

_You killed your father._

He paused before pushing himself up right. According to Alfred, he slept for a whole day, yet he still felt tired, as if he was awake for three whole nights. He made his way towards his bathroom to take a quick shower.

“Do you need some help, Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice rang around his empty room.

Bruce turned to him before shaking his head. He uttered no other words as he made his way back to his bathroom.

Alfred remained silent as well. Then he left.

And Bruce was truly, finally, alone.

Because who would ever want to be with him?

He’s a pest. He’s a nuisance. He takes and takes. But he never gives.

**Later.**

Bruce made his way towards the dining area to have his dinner. He was a bit astonished to see his youngest son already eating.

“Father,” Damian greeted, before proceeding to eat his breakfast.

Bruce stared at him for a second. He doubts that the pills he took earlier would work that fast. No, Damian could not be a hallucination.

“Would you like an egg with your breakfast, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, appearing from the kitchen. He was holding a platter with bread and bacon on one hand, and a spatula from the other.

Bruce nodded before walking towards his new coffee maker. He poured himself a glass before sitting at the head table.

“Damian,” Bruce called his youngest son, with almost a whisper.

Damian immediately stopped eating. He sat straight, like a soldier waiting for an order.

_Not a son._

Bruce swallowed down the forming lump. “I…” he paused. Damian looked at him, still expecting. Bruce suddenly felt like he could not look at him. His eyes turned towards the steaming plate that Alfred just placed in front of him. “I will not do patrol from now on.”

Damian’s eyes widened, a bit horrified, but mostly confused. “What do you mean, Father? Why would you not be on patrol? Are you wounded? Have you fought a villain?” he rushed to ask, he almost stood up, but Bruce stopped him.

“No,” Bruce willed himself the courage to look at his son’s eyes. Years of pretending allowed him to mask what he truly felt. “I simply felt tired, is all.” He took a bite of his bacon. It felt wrong. He wanted to puke it out by his son was watching. “Coordinate with Oracle. And stay safe.”

Damian nodded. And went back to eating. “How long will your rest be?”

Bruce already felt tired – as if speaking had drained him completely. He wanted to end the conversation. Why is his son being so persisted? Is it so hard to believe that he wants to rest? That he’s human too? And that he gets tired – and angry – and irritated. Because damn it Damian stop pretending that you fucking care – “Until I say so,” his irritation was evident on the way he almost yell.

Damian looked at him, and for a second Bruce could see the slight fear that flashed in his eyes before he masked it completely with his usual arrogant indifference.

Bruce felt so _wrong._

Damian nodded before quietly going back to his breakfast. He was almost done.

 _Breathe in._ Bruce took a small bite of his bacon. _Hold for four seconds._ It didn’t feel right. _Breathe out._ Was it the taste? Was the food spoil? But no, Alfred would not serve anyone spoiled food. Maybe he just did not like to consume some pork today. He took a slice of the garlic bread. It smelled as delicious as it looks. Yet, as the flavor register in his mind, as soon as his mind notice that he was consuming something – he wanted to puck. Even the bread did not feel right. Perhaps he also did not feel like eating bread? His eyes landed on the egg. It looked tasty. But he does not have the energy to chew.

He heard Damian’s seat moving away from the table. He looked up and saw Damian standing up. He nodded at Bruce before walking out.

Bruce sighed. Now that Damian’s no longer by his side, must he still pretend as if he wants to eat?

He looked up and sought Alfred. He was busy in the kitchen.

Bruce stood up. “I will be in the library,” he spoke as if someone would listen.

Alfred stopped cleaning the plates and nodded. “Understood, Master Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! I'm now taking ideas/requests. I only have an idea for the final BIG whump :(   
> i lack minor whumps so if you have some ideas i'll try to incorporate them. thank you!!!


	7. First Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first patrol without the Bat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)  
> then   
> :(

Damian was surprised to see his brothers when he entered the Batcave. He was in his Robin costume, preparing for the evening patrol when he saw Tim in the Batcomputer probably tweaking his father’s latest project – the Brother Eye.

“Drake?” he called as soon as he was five feet away from the Red Robin – who knew if his brother already had his dosage of caffeine? Damian does not want to engage in another accidental fight just because Tim lacks coffee in his blood.

“Sup’?” Tim asked, fingers busy typing. His eyes remained glued on the screen. “Where’s dad?” he asked.

“Father will not be joining me on patrol tonight,” Damian said.

As soon as his words registered in Tim’s system, his fingers stopped typing. His mind halted as he processed the implication of it. “Was he still tired?” he ran some diagnostic test on the computer, mind already busy with the hundred possibilities on Bruce would skip the patrol. “Is he okay?” he asked. The computer flashed the latest health diagnostic of Batman – and there were _no_ indicators of diseases.

Damian crossed his arms. “He does not have cancer, Drake,” he would not admit it but reading the latest diagnostic did made him feel better. “Father, he’s getting old. Which is no way a fault of his.”

Tim smirked. Damian really had matured. Before, Damian would have sprouted nonsense about their father getting _weak_ for skipping patrol. But now, he just accepted it. “Yeah, I agree. What did he say though? Did he say why?”

Damian’s mind went back to that little spat they had earlier. He still felt a bit hurt when his father yelled at him. “He said he’ll be the one to _decide_ when he’ll be back.”

 _That’s weird._ Tim thought. “Perhaps he is really…getting old?”

“Tt.” Damian’s count for social interaction was already exhausted by talking to Tim. “Will you stay here?” he asked, retrieving his weapon.

Tim locked the screen and turned towards his brother. “First one on the batmobile gets to drive it.”

Damian glared at Tim – then ran.

* * *

_He could barely hear the wind as he rammed his motorcycle on the thick snow. His heart is thumping rapidly against his chest, as if wanting to remove itself from his rib cage. Jason. His son was in the hands of his worst enemy – the Joker._

_The red light blinked rapidly, indicating that he was getting near. But not fast enough. He pedaled his motorcycle to go faster. Why can’t he just fucking fly? Why did he had to –_

_Perhaps if he had used his jet? Perhaps if he had been fast enough –_

_The sight of the shed was nearing. One more step, one more minute. Hold on, son. Hold on –_

_He rammed his motorcycle to go faster – faster – faster – faster –_

_The building blew up. He was left standing before the blast, his eyes wide opened. How the fuck – his son was still in there! He rushed towards the fire. His son – Jason –_

_Jason!_

_He blinked and he saw his son’s bloody and bruised – broken – battered – dead – body in front of him. “Jason!” he screamed. And to his horror, in his right hand – was a crowbar._

_“You killed him!”_

_No…._

_No…._

_Oh gods…._

_“Jason!” his voice broke. His legs gave out and he kneeled before his boy. He could barely stomach the sight of his son. His face was barely recognizable through the bruises. His body was swimming in blood – his own blood. His left foot was twisted, and his arms bound on his back._

_He wasn’t breathing._

_“You killed him!”_

_No…._

_I didn’t…._

_Who did?_

_You did._

_“You killed him!”_

_The voice was right. He killed his son. He looked at his hands now drenched in Jason’s blood._

_“It’s your fault!”_

_Tell me – he turned and saw Jason, as a child, eyes filled with fear as he looked at him. Suddenly, he started crying blood. “You did this to me,” he said, as blood also started to pour out from his mouth. He took a step towards him – his arms outstretched. “You did this to me!” he screamed. He ran towards him and pushed Bruce on his back._

_Bruce let him. He could feel Jason’s blood drenching his shirt._

_Jason’s hands were wrapped at his throat. Bruce could feel it tightening._

_“You did this to me,” he kept on saying. Again, and again._

_“I trusted you,” he said, the blood from his eyes dropping on Bruce’s face. Bruce let him. He could feel it getting harder and harder to breath as Jason’s hold tightens. “Dad—”_

_Somehow, that uttered word hurt him the most. He could feel his heart stopped beating._

_“How could you kill me, dad? How could you kill your own son?”_

_I’m sorry –_

_He wanted to say._

_I’m sorry –_

_But is he truly?_

_I’m sorry –_

_No, you aren’t._

_I’m sorry –_

_“You killed me!”_

Bruce woke up screaming. He threw his blanket away and stood up. The words kept on echoing in his head. _It was your fault. You killed him. You killed your own son._ In the darkness, his eyes began to form tears. But he swallowed it down, he tried to control it.

But he can’t.

He’s tired of pretending, pretending that everything is alright. That he was fine after causing the death of his _own_ son. He found himself sobbing. He leaned against the nearest wall and pushed his knees close to him. He hugged it and buried his head in the gap.

And in the darkness, he stopped pretending to be strong. He broke down and cried at his lost.

He mourned for that of which he took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you for your support! <3 love you all! :)


	8. Brothers In Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventures of Robins also known as Robins v Riddler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the few fluffs left :)

**Gotham City. Night.**

Tim and Damian were perched at the top of a building, looking at the alleyway below. “Which villain is scheduled this week?” Damian asked out loud.

There’s a pause in their comms before Oracle’s voice went through – “Is that a joke?”

Tim snickered.

That actually made Barbara panic more. “Are you seriously joking, Damian? Are you alright? Tim check him, does he have a fever?” she said through the comms.

That made Tim laugh.

“Tt.” Damian said, looking at his right in an attempt to hide his blush. “I tried, okay?” he said.

“What’s happening here?” Red Hood appeared behind them, in full armor.

“Red Hood’s here,” Tim said over the comms.

“Affirmative. Connecting him to the feed,” Barbara said.

“Pfft, as if you ever took me off,” Jason said, teasing her.

Barbara laughed. “Okay, the villain of the day is the Riddler.”

“The Riddler? Let me guess, he’s trying to steal another painting?” Jason asked, already arming his gun with _rubber_ bullets because _someone_ will be disappointed if by gods he armed himself with _real_ bullets. He had a gun with real bullets though, tied to his foot. He’s not _that_ obedient. He’s the second son, isn’t he? The _rebel._ So suck it brucie bear.

“Yup,” Barbara said popping the ‘p.’ “Gotham museum. They turned off the feed just now,” she said.

All of the three started grappling towards the location. “And you’re _just_ saying it now? Are you going slow now Barbs?” Jason asked.

“Nope,” Barbara answered. “I just want to give them a head start,” she said.

“Are you siding with the enemies now, Gordon?” Damian asked.

“Nope. This is payback for Hood annoying me,” Barbara said. In the background, the boys heard her chew some chips.

Damian groaned before stopping in front of the building nearest to the museum. The two were soon by his side.

Jason stretched his arms. “Alright, you lil’ bro ready for some beating?”

Tim pulled out his weapon from his back. “Yes,” he said.

Damian pulled out his newly sharpened sword. “Seconded.”

Jason smiled. “And since the old bats ain’t here, how about we don’t hold back?” He said taking out his AK 47 from his bag. He looked proud as his gun. He kissed his gun.

Tim rolled his eyes at Jason’s dramatics. “Fine, but don’t kill.”

Jason winked at him. “No promises.”

Damian groaned. “Are you both done?”

Tim and Jason shrugged. “Fine, let’s beat some evil ass.”

“Riddler’s on me.” Tim said as he jumped first.

“What? You got some grudge or something?” Jason asked as he followed.

Damian was the first to break in. Jason and Tim followed. Tim used his baton to hit his first guy before replying, “Nah, I just miss my coffee.”

Jason shot two other guys before stopping and looking at him. Straight in the eye, while Damian was busy beating up others. “What’s that got to do with Riddler?” He shot another guy advancing towards him without looking.

Tim brought down two other goons, “I am craving for coffee, okay?” It was true. He only got one cup of coffee before Alfred filled it with milk. He wanted to complain but one hard glare from Alfred shut him up. He shivered upon remembering. “I want some…” three cups at the very least.

Jason kicked two before bashing the others’ head on the pavement. “Still see no connection.”

The questioning was irking Tim. Why can’t his brother converse him _after_ he had his coffee? He felt blood rushing in his ears. It was never a good thing to irk a caffeine-deprived Red Robin. He pulled out several baterang and all hit an unlucky goon with them. The goon fell, littered with baterang. He glared at Jason before hitting another, with much power than he usually does.

Jason smiled. Just a few more…”So, coffee and Riddler? What’s the deal? Cause I can say, it’s an enigma to me.” He punched a guy then winked at the Riddler battling his youngest brother.

Tim is never fond of puns. Especially in two scenarios: 1.) while engaged in a battle and 2) when he only had one cup of coffee. To be honest, he’s also not so fond of talking, so that’s three. He punched another guy who then fell unconsciously and broke another guy’s nose. Seriously? How many did Riddler even hired? He kicked a few more before seeing Jason’s smug face – who is merely _standing_ in the middle of the battle ground, his hand on his chin pretending to think. “Coffee…hmm…riddle?” Tim heard him murmuring. Tim had to dodge a kick to his face. He saw Jason shrugged but still refused to engage in battle.

Tim. Had. Enough.

With a battle roar, he started punching and kicking without holding back – all the goons froze and had a self-realization that perhaps life of crime ain’t fit for them all. But it’s too late. As the Red Robin wove his way through the goons sending each of them flying like a hand swatting mosquito. The few who were fortunate enough not to be near the Red Robin’s vicinity and has a few more braincells left, started running away. But Jason was quick to trip them with a bullet.

“What are you all fools doing?!” Riddler shrieked as he saw his goons escaping.

“RAAAAAAAHHHHHHH” Tim yelled before engaging towards Riddler. “I WILL END YOU!” he was too focused in the rage that he does not even feel embarrassed for saying such a cliché antagonist dialogue. He rushed towards the Riddler and pushed Damian away.

“DRAKE!” Damian yelled before somersaulting to ease his fall (which was drilled to him by his eldest – _I will not be the only gymnast in this family)_

“RRRRAAAHHHHH” Tim continued to punch Riddler.

“Stop! Stop! I surrender!” Riddler screamed as the Red Robin rained hell upon him.

Damian held Tim’s arm trying to stop him, but Tim pushed him away.

“I surrender!!” There were tears in Riddler’s eyes as he begs for Tim to stop.

“Tim! Catch!” Jason yelled before throwing a tumbler at Tim.

The tumbler hit Tim in the head before rolling on the ground. He growled at Jason, _actually growled_ , like a feral animal – before getting the tumbler and opening it. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit his nose and Tim almost fell unconscious. He took a sip – and _yes_ , that’s his favorite (actually Bruce’s, but after months of stealing Bruce’s beans, he had learnt to love it too)

Jason pumped his fist in the air. “That’s what I call a contingency plan,” he said. Then shrugged upon realizing that it is _exactly_ what Batman would have called it – nope! His was a _back up_ plan, different! It’s different!

Damian rolled his eyes as he handcuffed a shuddering Riddler. He was shaking as if he was given some of Scarecrow’s toxin gas. “I know, Drake could be brutal without his caffeine,” Damian said, with an ounce of sympathy. He then looked over to see Tim doing a small little dance every time he sipped a bit of coffee. He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it all. “Pathetic,” he whispered. But he found Tim’s little dancing adorable, like brother-ly ones, _ew_ he’s not turning into Grayson – dear gods, _no._

Jason, on the other hand, found it blackmail material. Hence, he had his phone on record the moment Tim yelled RAAAAHH and charged at the Riddler. He’s going to post this with a caption, “#don’tdocoffeekids” he felt clever on coming up with that little joke. “Come on, guys –” he was typing on his phone when a knife passed him by his shoulder – his body moved subconsciously, as if sensing the danger, but apparently, not fast enough.

“Ark!” He looked back and saw a goon with his leg in an odd position. “Seems like someone is _trying_ to be brave,” he cocked his gun and shoot the guy in his right eyes. Since he was using rubber bullets, the bullet was stuck in it. The goon screamed, holding on his bleeding eyes. Jason moved and kicked the guy’s head, sending him flying to the wall. He looked at his arm and cursed. Damn him and his phone addiction. He felt like there should be more – he looked at his brothers, Tim was still sipping his coffee as if he didn’t even hear the gunshot and Damian was busy kicking the bodies, checking if someone is still conscious so he could knock them out – “What? No _Jason-we-don’t-kill_ crap?” he imitated Dick’s eerily cheerful voice.

Tim shrugged while Damian answered with a “Tt.”

“To be honest, you get a pass for murder, since you gave me this coffee,” Tim replied, sniffling the aroma.

“I honestly don’t care,” Damian said, finally finding someone to knock unconscious. “There, that’s the last of it.”

Jason looked at them as if they were hallucinations. “Damn, I’ll want to team up with you from now on.”

**Later.**

Jason got to drive the batmobile because – “Shut up I’m eldest”

“Nope, Dick is,” Tim said.

“I am the blood son, I should drive!” Damian insisted, he was pouting because he lost _again_ at Tim for shotgun privilege.

“Shut up squirt,” Jason said. “and put on your seat beats!” he changed gears. “Cause’ we’re going _fast, super_ -fast.” Then he proceeded to imitate the Flash.


	9. Second Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce misinterpreted a situation.

**Back at the Manor.**

Bruce felt little energy for eating, but Alfred was there by the table, watching him like a hawk. He wanted to feel annoyed and irritated, but he just doesn’t have enough energy to do so. Even after all but sleeping the entire day, he still felt tired. One good thing, though, was that the pills are working. His nights were longer, his dreams were deeper.

Yet, he never felt rested.

“Are you going to stare at it till it finishes itself, Master Bruce?” Alfred’s sass was as sharp as ever.

Bruce sighed. He lifted his fork and took a small bite of the chicken that Alfred prepared. He wanted to puke as soon as he smelled it. Not because he was disgusted by it, his mind just did not seem to comprehend that he’s a human that needs to eat.

He stared at it before swallowing whatever thought his mind was conjuring. He swallowed the chicken directly and smiled at Alfred. “Delicious,” he tried to complement before swallowing.

Alfred hummed, unperturbed by his act.

Bruce was really annoyed by how Alfred seemed to not give him enough room. He was watching – him, a forty-year-old man. Why is he watching him like a misbehaving child? Bruce is a man of his own making – he was _Batman_ for god’s sake, why does he need someone to _make sure_ that he eats. He can take care of himself, _just_ fine. He was resting, isn’t that what Alfred always ask of him? _You need to rest too, Master Bruce,_ he always says. _You’re human too._

Alfred seemed to sense his irritation because he put down the glass that he has been cleaning for almost half an hour now. He sighed before walking towards the kitchen.

The aching realization that he is alone again pained him. Why is he angry at Alfred anyway? Alfred was justified for watching him, he always watches him, he was his guardian, his butler, (his second father?) so it’s kind of in his job description to make sure that he eats – yet, what did Bruce do? He pushed him away and fault him for doing his _job._ He was found himself again drained of energy. Does he have to finish this meal? The thought of chewing just few more seems like a daunting action that requires more energy that Bruce could have used to sit up straight. Does he _really_ have to?

He does not feel like eating – perhaps he could get a bite of cookie? He stood up and sought for his container. He found it and was surprised to see it only got two. Does Alfred forgot to bake?

Bruce heard voices by the door. He walked towards it, the container in his hand, a cookie on the other. He took a bite – and his favorite sweetened taste seemed enough to rile his mouth to chew. He took another bite.

“Jason got stabbed!” Damian’s voice echoed by the door.

Bruce stopped. His grip on the contained loosened. The container fell on the ground, a cookie lay wasted on the floor.

_“You did this to me,” he said, as blood also started to pour out from his mouth._

No, this was a dream. He was still dreaming, wasn’t he?

He was losing balance. He suddenly felt dizzy – dizzier than he felt when he took thrice the required amount of sleeping pills.

He was losing oxygen; he had forgotten how to breath.

Lord, how are you supposed to breathe again? Where does the air go?

He felt empty, out of breath, how do you fucking breathe—

A hand on his shoulder.

He flinched and ran—

He had to see. His son – Jason –

He’s too late. _He’s too late._

_The abandoned apartment burst into flames. Bruce was thrown back._

_His son is inside—_

_He was waiting—_

_He was waiting for him—_

_His son needed him—_

_“Where were you dad?”_

He entered the living room – unseeing – his eyes scanned the room, only one goal in mind. _He was too late._

Was he too late?

_“How could you let this happen to me?!”_

“Jason!” He screamed – and in his eyes what he saw was Jason’s _dead_ body. He felt the aftermath of the explosion – the smoke, the heat, the smell of a burnt body. “Jason!” he screamed. He fell on his knees. “Jason,” he whispered the name like a prayer.

_“I trusted you”_

“Dad?”

* * *

Jason wanted to stab his youngest brother.

Miles before they went back to the cave, his youngest brother contacted _Dick_ fucking _Grayson_. He did not know it until he was in the living room, fully intended to lay on the sofa to grab a few minutes of sleep before going back to his apartment to maintain the status quo of his perceived independence (not saying he was dependent – but there’s just an itch that made his body unable to lay still until he felt the comfort of his own bed in _his_ own room in the Manor – when he found himself squished by his oldest brother. Dick was too fast for him to avoid.

“I was worried!” he screamed in his face. He saw in the corner of his eyes, Damian’s smug face. The motherfucker called their eldest brother.

Tim was already on the floor, still minding his coffee, so he’s not included in Jason’s hit list, _yet._

“I just found out the Bat’s not with you—I should’ve been here sooner!” Dick said, tears in his eyes.

Jason rolled his eyes and pulled himself free from Dick’s overdramatic hug. “Relax. It’s three versus one,” he said. “It’s not like we could not take on the Riddler, perhaps the squirt couldn’t—”

“HEY!” Damian’s yelled, clearly offended. “I could’ve taken you _and_ the Riddler—”

“In your dreams, brat,” Jason said, crossing his arms. He flinched when his muscles registered the minor slash.

Damian smirked before saying, “Jason’s got stabbed!” he blabbered to Dick, pointing a finger at the injury.

“No—no!” Jason was panicking now.

Official Mother Hen Dick feared the worst, as if he was a character in an Anime show, he suddenly produced a first aid kit from God knows where – eyes gleaming with a dying thirst to fulfill his mother hen instinct.

Jason’s hand flew on his gun holster – he knew that three to one, they can’t beat Dick _fucking_ Grayson, but damn him if he won’t at least _try._ Dick always insisted on having only embarrassingly pink _floral_ band-aids and other medical paraphernalia – even bandages! Where the hell does he get them? Are they custom made? Jason wanted to know for _reasons_ – i.e. burning the whole place down and killing those who made them so they could not be reproduced anymore.

(Little does he know, Dick _indeed_ has them custom-made, he does the extra mile so his brothers will try their best to _not_ get injured, like a little manipulation)

Dick was slowly walking towards him. “Let me treat it, little wing,” he said, calmingly and in an unthreatening voice, like the voice Dog rescuers use to coax a dog. Nevertheless, Jason heard the threat in between – _let me treat you or I’ll make sure to add more._

He tried to walk back, only to bump on another – Damian, the traitor stood behind him, his arms outstretch in a threatening T-post. He was smirking at him. Two steps away from him was Tim – engrossed in his coffee (did Jason purchased a bottomless one? Cause he swore Tim was on it for a long time) – yet also ready to stop him if Jason tried to run.

Damn them both. He glared at them.

Dick was getting closer now.

Jason has no choice –

“Jason!” Bruce’s panicked voice echoed on the room.

The four boys looked behind Dick to saw their father standing by the dining door. His eyes were unseeing, as if he was looking for something that does not exist. He stared pass Jason. “Jason—” his voice cracked. He took a few more steps before his knees gave up on him. He started – fuck –

“Dad?”

Dick was quick to be by their father’s side – yet as soon as his hand touched Bruce’s shoulder he flinched and his eyes looked up – they’re filled with _fear._

Jason walked forward and stood beside Dick. “Dad?” he asked again, and Bruce looked at him, but at the same time, he does not _see_ him. His eyes were glazed with unshed tears.

He knelt beside him, “Dad are you okay?” he asked. It felt surreal to call him Dad, usually he calls Bruce, well, _Bruce_ and occasionally pops or old man. But this time, it felt _wrong_ to call him anything other than Dad. And Jason did not even _have_ to think about what is appropriate or not – his mouth just uttered Dad without hesitation.

He had long since forgiven his father from not killing Joker, for not avenging him.

Yes, it still hurt that his father did not kill the Joker for taking him away from _Bruce_ but – Bruce is his father, and the love he felt for him won over the hate he had felt upon his forced resurrection. He did not know exactly _how_ , but after the incident with the Black Mask – he just accepted it.

_“Because it’ll be too easy,” his father said when he asked him._

_“Every day I’ve thought of killing him…but I didn’t. Because it’ll be too easy.”_

He now understood. Because once the Batman crossed the line – _“I can’t ever go back.”_ – the Batman, his father, is the only one who stood before the destruction, the wickedness of the world. If he crossed the line – what would the world become? Who would be their hero – a person who could carry the burden of doing what is good, in exchange for that of his own.

He now understood. The weight that his father carries on his back.

He could now see. The sacrifices that his father had given _for the better good._

 _“Because it’ll be too easy—”_ It’ll be too easy to let go, to fall in the depths of evil. To do what _you_ want, not what _needs_ to be done. It’ll be too easy to put a bullet on someone’s head. One shot. Two shots. Three – once you’ve crossed the line, like he did, you could never stop.

Only his father had saved him, with his constant presence, a constant reminder –

_That a bullet is what took his father’s dreams away from him._

_A bullet is what killed the Waynes._

_And a bullet is what Jason uses –_

He was blinded before by his anger, by his hate, and his disappointment – but now he understood.

He hugged his father.

Now he understood.


	10. I Will Always Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Bruce centric :')

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sappiest chapter I have ever written. Enjoy. :)

Dick helped Jason pull their father and half carry him to his room. Damian and Tim were quick by their side. Tim was on his phone, constantly rechecking the body scan of their father, looking for any sign of what may have happened. His father looked panicked – frightened even. He does not have focus – is he hallucinating? What may cause it? His father had not been in touch with Scarecrow, or any of the fear gas, according to the data in the Batcave. And Alfred would have known if he did – Alfred _always know_ – and he would inform them, regardless of what Bruce told him to.

So, what happened?

Damian was the one to open the door and led his brothers inside. Dick and Jason – the two eldest, and strongest – placed their father on the bed.

Dick’s Official Mother Hen mode was buzzing. “What happened?” he voiced out the question that rang in their heads. “Tim?” – knowing already what Tim was up to.

“Nothing,” Tim answered, “There’s no data – the last fight he had was with some ordinary nameless goon, it wasn’t too trouble.”

“Fear gas? Any chemicals? Perhaps before,” Dick asked again.

Tim shook his head. “All the chemicals he had encountered with had been healed and dealt. No sign of fear gas in his system either.”

Dick paused, his mind filling with possibilities. He was not by his father’s side when Jason died – too engrossed in his emotions, too angry at Bruce, too devastated upon knowing that a _child_ , his _brother,_ died too soon. “Why did he call Jason?”

They both look at Jason. Jason shook his head. “No idea.” He looked back at their father – also at odds on what to think.

“He said that he wanted a break,” Damian said. “He was feeling _tired.”_

“Perhaps it’s brought by his exhaustion?” Tim wondered.

“Yeah, but why call my name?” Jason added.

“He heard Master Damian say that Master Jason got stabbed,” Alfred, appearing in the door, said. He took a deep sigh. “It brought—” he paused, as if remembering a horrible memory, “it brought, painful memories.”

“Of my death…” Jason was lost for a moment, “he mourned me?”

Dick, Tim, and Damian looked shocked.

“Of course, he did! You’re his son!” Dick said.

“Tt. Idiot,” Damian said, crossing his arm.

“For once, I agree,” Tim said, putting his hand up. Damian clapped* with his own. [*like bro-fist but with palms, idk how to call it, sorry]

“He was too distraught, Master Jason, which is why he was unable to notice that your body was replaced by a fake one,” Alfred informed him. 'Stupid and careless' Bruce said upon knowing what Ra ul had done. Alfred tried to explain that his Master was mourning the death of his son, of course he would be in too much pain to notice. How would even Bruce expect himself to perform an autopsy at his own son?

Jason remained quiet – remembering those times when he felt _hurt_ , thinking that his father did not love him enough, that he was easily replaced.

“He never replaced you,” Tim said, as if answering Jason’s question. “I bullied him into submission,” he grinned.

Jason and Damian both rolled their eyes.

Dick laughed at he caught them simultaneously doing so. He turned to Alfred, “Is my room still available for the night?”

Alfred mentally roll his eyes, _as if you don’t sleep here almost everyday Master Dick._

Tim stretched, “I’ll do some final coding in the Cave. I’m close on completing Brother Eye,” he said, proud.

Dick nodded and playfully scratch his brother’s head. “Nice work, little wing.”

Jason and Damian, _again,_ simultaneously rolled their eyes – plus they both crossed their arms. “Nerd,” they both said. Jason pulled out his fist and Damian bumped him.

Tim glared at them, “Awesome. Now there’s two of you.”

“You’re just too easy to bully, little bro,” Jason said.

“Right? There’s just something about Drake that screams weakling,” Damian said.

Jason looked at Tim from head to toe, then nodded. “I see what you mean.”

Tim gritted his teeth. Thank gods he already had his coffee. “I hate you both.”

Dick laughed before pitching Tim’s cheeks. “Don’t worry little wing, you have me.”

Damian laughed as Tim screamed, his cheeks are red from Dick’s grip. “Ha! Now you know how it felt!” Damian said.

Alfred looked amused with their brotherly commotion. “Would you like some cookies and milk before bed?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

It is _always_ a resounding _yes._

* * *

After their short cookie-meal, Dick and Damian went to bed while Tim, as he said, went towards the Cave. Jason finished his third glass of milk before going towards their father’s bed. He grabbed three more cookies on his way out the dining area.

He pushed his father’s door and sat by his bed side. He stared at his father’s sleeping form before saying in a soft voice, “I’m sorry.” _For the hurt that I’ve caused you thinking you never loved me enough not knowing that the love you had for me was too much that it broke you._

Bruce’s face looked troubled – as if he was having a nightmare. “Jason,” he whispered, pained evident in his voice. His head was moving left and right, hands grasping the blanket. Jason gently nudged him awake, “it’s just a dream, dad” he said.

Bruce’s eyes slowly opened, still looking dazed. He saw him, “Jason?”

Jason nodded.

As if his mind just registered the thought – he sat up and pulled Jason into a crushing hug, believing that if he let him go, he’ll disappear, and he’ll wake up, like those many times he had dreamt that Jason was by his side days after his death.

But no, his son was here.

_His son is alive. He had not failed him._

Jason hugged back and buried his head on his father’s shoulders, his hand patting his father’s back in a soothing manner. “I’m here, dad.”

“Jason,” Bruce said – eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry, son. I’m so _sorry._ I killed you, I _killed_ you,” he cried, repeating his apologies.

Jason tried to sooth him down. “It’s not your fault, dad. It _never_ is.” He kept reassuring.

Bruce, still tired from earlier, eventually fell asleep in his son’s embraced. Jason upon realizing, gently ease his father down. He kissed his forehead, the way his father does when he was a teen. “I love you, dad.” He whispered.

“I’ll always do.”


	11. Last Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as the last fluff :(

**Following Morning.**

Bruce felt eerily _rested._ He woke up normally, and for once, not from a nightmare. His mind is quiet, and he felt at peace – for _some reason._ He tried to remember what happened last night, but all he recalled was eating Alfred’s cookies.

Perhaps the sweetened delight eased his troubles? Hmm……maybe he should eat more of them instead of taking pills.

The thought made him smile, oddly enough, he felt energized. He looked forward to eating. That thought made him pause.

Though, not wanting to spoil his good mood by dwelling too much on _why_ he felt good, he started to take a quick shower and brushed his teeth.

He walked down the stairs and saw Alfred preparing breakfast. He smiled when he saw his two favorite things in the morning – his cup of coffee, and his son, Damian.

“Morning son,” he said.

“Morning Father,” Damian greeted back, he smuggled a piece of Bacon to Titus who was patiently waiting on the floor. Alfred glared at him from the kitchen.

His son looked at him, as if assessing him. “Had you got a good rest, Father?” he asked, trying to be indifferent but Bruce could hear the concern in between. It made him smile as he took his seat at the head table.

“Why yes,” Bruce said, taking a sip. “Thank you for asking.”

Damian nodded. He can’t stop the small smile from appearing in his face, he was too glad that his father was fine after all.

Alfred gave them their serving. “Bon Appetite,” he said, feeling also quite playful.

Bruce laughed – _actually laughed ­_ – “Thanks, Alfred.”

Damian could not help but to grin. He wore a huge smile on his face as he heard his father laugh. _His father is fine._

_Everything is alright._

_Right?_

They both started eating.

As Bruce was slicing his bacon, he asked his son, “Do you want to go to the Mall?”

Damian looked confused. “Why?”

Bruce shrugged. “Come see a movie with me?” He paused to think. “I think there’s also some games there.” It was too long since he got inside a mall.

“Like the Arcade?” Damian’s mind short-circuited. Perhaps he is dreaming? Why would his father –

Bruce shrugged. “Sure.” He said, grinning. Suddenly, he frowned, “Why? Do you not want to?” his mood dampening.

“NO! I mean yes!” Damian panicked – he does not want to be the cause of his father’s mood worsening. He coughed before clarifying, “Of course, I would love to go with you, Father,” he said, giving a little smile.

Bruce nodded and smiled back. “Nice. So, it’s decided then. We shall go by lunch.”

“Should I now go wake Masters Dick, Jason, and Tim?” Alfred asked.

Bruce paused.

“I assumed you also want to take your other sons too.” Alfred said.

“Yeah, but aren’t they—” Bruce was interrupted by Dick appearing by the door, arms outstretched.

“Ah! What a nice dream,” he said, yawning.

Bruce looked at him in disbelief. “Dick?” he asked.

Dick smiled, eyes dazed still from his sleep. Well, he had a fantastic dream. “Morning, dad” he said before taking his usual seat.

“Fuck, did I smell bacon?!” Jason yelled as soon as he entered. He yawned loudly before sitting across Dick.

“I need coffee—” Tim said, eyes closed as he sat across Damian, beside Dick. His nose moved, like a dog catching a smell, towards his father’s cup – and took it. Bruce was too shock to stop him.

He emptied it in one drink. “More!” Alfred was by his side, refilling it.

“I want milk,” Jason said, engulfing his bacon. “And more bacon!” he said, as if he was starved last night and was forced to sleep off his hunger.

Bruce blinked, finally adjusting to his reality. He can’t help the smile that broke on his face. _Finally,_ all his sons, in one table. Eating, breakfast.

_If this was a dream, please God, don’t wake me up._

“So…Father was asking if you want to see a movie with him,” Damian said.

Bruce blinked at his sons.

“Nice, John Wick is showing,” Tim said, already browsing in his phone.

“Oh, nice nice! They said he’s awesome,” Dick added.

Jason snorted. “We’ll see.”

Bruce coughed, “And also the Arcade—“

“Arcade?!” Dick and Jason both grasped – eyes flashing with excitement.

“I’m so gonna ace the shooting game. Fifty bucks, I’ll ace it in one try,” he smirked smugly. “Rank 1. One try.”

Bruce took a sip of his coffee – Alfred gave him a cup after refilling Tim’s – pondering. “Make it a hundred.”

“Two hundred,” Tim said, “You’ll lose.”

Jason grinned.

“Oh! What about the Dance Dance Revolution game!” Dick said, clapping his hands with excitement. “Let’s play Damian!”

Damian paled – all his blood drained from his face. “NO!” he shrieked, horrified. “No _fucking_ way.” He said.

“Language, squirt” Jason said, teasing.

“Shut it Todd.” Damian said. To Dick he answered back, “No.”

“Aww,” Tim said, feigning disappointment. “Afraid you’ll lose?”

Let it be known that Damian is too proud for his own good. “Fine.” He glared at his eldest. “You’ll lose, Grayson.”

Dick smiled. “We’ll see, little wing.” (He has a Just Dance game in his xbox back at the apartment – and _constantly_ plays it)

Bruce smiled at his sons interacting. He thought he’ll never lived to see the day that he could witness them acting like normal siblings. He felt warmed inside.

_“I’ll always love you, dad.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is a Christmas special!


	12. Lesson Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes to Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the promised Christmas special! :D

**The following day after their Mall tour.**

After being reminded, _constantly_ , that Christmas is only around the corner, Bruce decided to buy his children some gifts by shopping in the market later tonight – which he always does, but only online. He feels like he could use the cold night walk, and he’s confident in his Robins’ (yes, _plural_ , his children may call themselves whatever name they want, but in Bruce’s mind and heart – and soul – they’ll always be Robin to him, his son, his partner-in-fighting-crime) to handle Gotham’s criminal tonight.

He wanted to surprise them.

When he was walking with his sons in the Mall, being surrounded by other people, by parents, children, friends, family, neighbors, and many more, it felt – calming. He felt almost as calm as he does when he was (not brooding, excuse you) atop a building overlooking the city. There’s a sense of magic being surrounded by people, under the lights and decorations of the city. It almost took him back to those nights that his parents would take him.

Three days before Christmas, they would take young Bruce to the Market in order to buy food and things to cook and to give. Then, his parents would leave him with Alfred to buy him gifts. Young Bruce would try to sneak behind them so he could take a peek, but Alfred was as stern as he was thirty years ago – so, unfortunately, Bruce was not successful in his secret mission. Alfred buys him hot chocolate, though, and he bought him lots of stuff in the market. He also let young Bruce borrow some money when his savings were short for his parents’ gifts. Then Bruce would go with his parents and they’ll buy Alfred’s gifts.

It was a happy memory that Bruce always cherish.

Perhaps being engulfed in the Market’s rush heightens those memory that he has. And Bruce, like a man dying of thirst, quench those sweetest memory whenever he could.

Which is why Bruce was preparing his coat and placing some extra bills on his wallet – he had to buy for six nowadays, and those children of his does not accept cheap (especially, his youngest son, Damian).

“Leaving, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, his hands filled with flour – probably off to bake some cookies again, _damn it,_ Bruce still does not remember finishing his batch. Is he getting too old?

“Yes. I’ll be off to the market,” Bruce answered, wrapping his shawl.

“May I come with you Father?” Damian asked, appearing by Alfred’s side, in his hand was a piece of a cookie.

Bruce shook his head. “I’ll be buying gifts.” Damian’s eyes hardened and Bruce could see his mischief reflected in those stunningly similar blue eyes. “And no, you will _not_ follow me.” Damian nodded. “I’m serious, son, I _will_ know.” He nodded at Alfred before leaving.

Damian was left, his cheek heating slightly when he heard his father called him _son._

Alfred patted him in the shoulder. He sighed. _It’s ridiculous how emotionally constipated this whole family is._

* * *

Bruce felt his phone buzz with a text. It was from Oracle. _Batman?_ – it read.

 _Not yet. Tell the others to accompany Robin._ – he replied.

Oracle sent a thumbs up emoji.

* * *

Bruce marveled at the colorful lights that littered the market that night. He basked on their reflection as his eyes wandered at the colors. It took him back to his younger years with his parents – he could almost see his young self’s shadows running around the market place, pulling at his mother’s arms – “hurry!” his childish voice would yelp as he ran pass his parents to stare at the giant Christmas tree at the center of the plaza.

Perhaps he could also build the tree this year? It’ll make his hands busy, that’s for sure. He could cut one of the dozens in his backyard – as to make it even more alive. He has to buy more decorations, though. It’s okay, he has enough money to spare.

He looked at the busiest market he had ever seen and started walking. Who does he have to buy first? What must he get his children?

Dick loves the color blue; he could buy his son a blue pen and he’ll just be as thankful. The absurdity that is his son brought a smile on his face.

He saw a store that sells scarfs and Bruce tried looking at that first. There’s a lot of people around, but Bruce has enough patience to squeeze in. He looked at the scarfs and decided to buy his family one each – a dark blue for Dick, a flaming red for Jason, another red but in a lighter shade for Tim, a green one for Damian, a yellow for Barbara (his honorary daughter), and an orange one for Alfred.

He decided for a new bed sheet cover for Dick – it has a clear sky as a design.

He bought his second a gun holster. He understood, and accepted, his son’s enthusiasm with guns – though he still disapproves of him using it, _with real bullets._

He decided to buy Tim a coffee maker, remembering yesterday morning when Tim took his cup of coffee.

He bought his youngest a pajama with puppies as design.

He already brought a new baking pan-hands and a towel that says Best Grandpa for Alfred and a t-shirt that says _I see you_ for Barbara.

Aside from the separate gifts, he also bought a small batman keychain for all of them – including him. It was the Batman symbol that he saw a store selling, along with other logos of the other heroes. The Batman logo was the best seller, according to the salesclerk, that they have to made thrice as much for the logo.

Bruce felt warmed by the thought.

He made a quick stop towards a store that sells a lot of Christmas tree designs to get some décor. He brought as much as his hand could carry.

* * *

After purchasing, he stared at the bags in his hand, and thought that perhaps he should have brought a larger bag. He shrugged. Oh well, at least he was done now. He felt immensely relaxed and proud for himself. He was looking forward to seeing his son’s faces as they open the presents that he brought for them.

He hoped that he could convince them to stay at the Manor for a few more days after Christmas, though. Perhaps he could ask Alfred to do so? Would it be manipulation if he asked Alfred, bearing in mind that none of his kids can say no to him? Bruce tried not to dwell too much on that thought.

_Bruce was skipping his step, his smile as wide as the sun, hands making wild gestures as he talks rapidly about what he loved about the movie._

_His parents walking behind him, all smiles, as they listen intensively on what he has to say._

_They were all engrossed in their own little world – too trusting, too naïve. They never saw the criminal. Never saw his shadow looming over them. Waiting, waiting…_

His mind was still wandering however, that he neglected to see the incoming attack on his back. Someone pushed him to the ground. He fell and the bags he was carrying was then scattered on the ground. He groaned as he massages his aching head. He looked back and someone grabbed him and pushed him at the wall.

“Mr. Wayne, fancy seeing you here,” a gravelling voice told him.

_His father placed him at his back, the moment the criminal made his presence known. His gun pointed straight at his father._

Bruce looked up, expecting to see someone familiar, but was astonished to see a stranger. He was snarling at him – anger and greed clearly reflected on his eyes.

_“What do you want?” his father asked._

“What do you want?” Bruce said, he wanted to know before he attacks this nameless criminal.

_“Money?” his father asked._

“Money?” he asked, pulling up his wallet from his pocket.

_“We don’t hand money to petty criminals,” his father snarled. He refused to surrender. In his mind, he was fighting an ordinary battle. But he was wrong._

_The criminal has a gun._

_His father has none._

“Here—take it—” he said, pushing it towards the criminal.

He punched him instead. “Scum like you should be in jail!” He kicked him in the stomach.

Bruce spluttered blood. “I don’t know—” another kick “what the hell—” another one “you’re talking about—” the pain was finally registering in his head. His mind was buzzing with the need to fight back, adrenaline started burning on his stomach.

A scream broke out in the alleyway. Both look to see a five-year old child, eyes wide and finger pointing at them. Her mother was quick to be at her side, she hugged her and cupped her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, tears already flowing. In her mind, she understood the implication of breaking a beating like this. Who knew what runs in the criminal’s mind?

Bruce was a second too late to realize that the criminal had pulled out a gun at his back and shot – _two_ times.

_One shot._

_Bruce did not even realize that his father was shot. He only saw red as his father’s blood splattered on his face._

_He stared motionless._

_What just happened?_

Another scream rang. Bruce’s world froze as he saw the woman go down – she stood in front of her daughter, a last ditch to protect her own.

_  
His mother had forgotten about him the moment his father’s body fell. She rushed to his side, leaving him – unprotected._

_Perhaps he was worth less than her husband._

_“You’ve killed him!” his mother’s voice echoed in his head. “Oh my god, you’ve killed him!”_

“Ma! Ma!” the daughter was kneeling by her mother’s side, openly sobbing.

_He was shaking his father’s bleeding body. He shook him. Wishing that it was all a bad dream. But he won’t wake up. He won’t wake up._

“Shit.” The criminal was panicking now—

But Bruce remained frozen. His time, halted.

_“Someone please help!” The criminal turned the gun towards her mother. Bruce wanted to shout, warn her mother about the gun – look out!_

_No words came out, he remained frozen – bounded by shock and disbelief._

_Two gun shots. His mother fell on the ground. Two bullet wounds on her heart._

_“That’ll shut you up.” The criminal sneered before walking towards Bruce. Gun pointing at him –_

The criminal cursed before turning the gun on Bruce. At least if he could –

_The criminal sneered before ducking down to take his mother’s pearls. He removed the gun’s safety and pushed the gun on Bruce’s head. “You deserve what you got, boy,” the criminal sneered._

_He pushed his gun back. “Perhaps you’ll grow to learn.”_

_Learn what?_

One shot.

Bruce fell. His body leaving a red trail on the wall.

The criminal sneer at him. “You deserve what you got, Mr. Wayne.” He left.

In his wake he leaves: the cries of a now abandoned five-year-old, a cold body of a woman, and a dying man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone :)


	13. The Death of Bruce Wayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne died at an alleyway last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No archive warnings apply :)
> 
> choo choo here comes the angst train!

Bruce Wayne died at an alleyway last night.

_It was cold that night. The air was freezing. His parents insisted him to wear a scarf._

He wrapped a scarf on his neck. He knew Alfred would berate him if he didn't. 

_They were walking down by an alleyway. His father was not able to find a parking space near the cinema as it was ready filled._

He parked near the alleyway, at the end of the Market place, he knew he'll be picky choosing a present for his sons. (Not that they won't appreciate any gifts he'll send them)

_He was excited,_ happy _. The movie was as awesome as his friends had told him. He can't wait to tell them! That he had already seen it. He looked at his parents -his father, with a twinkle in his eyes, and a smile on his aging face, and his mother, wrapped in his father's embrace, an amused smile in hers. He hugged them. And thanked them. His father's stomach rumbled with laughter and he and his wife hugged their son back. His father kissed the top of his head._

* * *

He was excited, _happy_. He had chosen the perfect gifts for his sons - well, he hoped he did. He also brought some Christmas wrappers - though he has no idea how to use it. He figured he could ask Alfred for help? Alfred knew everything after all. He also brought some Christmas decor -for the tree and a parole to hang by the door. It was the first time he had felt this ecstatic about the upcoming day - well, he always looks forward to any day that his sons would come and visit him. But, somehow, this Christmas - something tells him that it’ll be the best one. Perhaps it was brought by the time he had spent with his sons yesterday, the brought chaos to the Mall. It was amusing how his youngest and eldest tried their best to follow the moves in the arcade. And true to his words, his second won the game in one try. They gathered a lot of attention that time. But not because they're the _Waynes_ , but because his sons were the epitome of chaotic energy.

_He was looking forward to coming home._

He was looking forward to coming home.

_There would be gifts under the Christmas tree!_

He has to build a Christmas tree.

_But they were too naive, too trusting--_

But he was too preoccupied--

_A criminal appeared in front of them, gun pointed at his father._

A criminal hit him in the back of his head. He was pushed by the wall.

_"What do you want? Money?"_

"What do you want? Money?"

_The criminal shook his head._

He punched Bruce instead.

_"You took him from me."_

"You killed him."

_The criminal pointed the gun pass his father and into Bruce –_

The criminal pointed the gun –

_  
And_

Shoot.

_"No!" his mother screamed, horrified._

“No!” The cries of a frightened child echo the empty alleyway.

_Young Bruce's blood littered the floor, his head on his mother's lap, his father kneeling by his side. They were crying, but Bruce doesn't understand why. They just saw a pretty awesome movie, haven't die?_

Bruce felt the bullet exit through his back. He slid down the wall, leaving behind a trail of blood. He thought he heard voices, but everything was fading so fast. The buzzling sound of the Market fades into a whisper.

Life was cruel for Bruce. Always has been, always will be.

For instead of showing him his life, like it does to any dying person, it showed him what _could_ be.

He saw the day, in that alleyway, when his parents took him to the movies. He saw himself die, in his parents' arms.

His parents mourned, like any other would. Alfred too. He was deeply saddened, oddly he felt guilt for not being there.

_But he moved on. His parents moved on._

They had another child, brighter, happier. He filled their life with much love that he could ever did. Alfred adored the other child. His mother did.

He saw Dick, enjoying his life with his parents. He became an acrobat too, rose to fame short after.

He saw Jason, adopted by a more capable parent. He went to college, aced his classes, and became a writer.

He saw Tim, with his parents, he became their company's CEO. He became a better leader and led his employees to success. He was beloved by many.

He saw Damian, born to a different set of parents. He participated in a sport - perhaps even that of fencing. He won, became undefeated, a champion. He was smiling. He was _happy_.

_They all are._

Perhaps if Bruce died at that alleyway that night, perhaps if fate hadn't been that cruel, perhaps –

_He takes and takes and takes. He never gives._

Yet life proved once again how cruel it can be.

He opened his eyes, to the tears of his eldest son.


	14. Why Are You Still Breathing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...is the question that echoes in Bruce's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more angst and some fluff!

Bruce eyes hurt as it tries to adjust to the bright lighting of the Cave. “I—” _I’m alive?_

“Bruce?” he heard a voice. He looked to his left and saw his eldest son – Dick – hovering by his side. “I’m glad you’re awake,” he said, he released a breath as if he had just forgotten how. He placed a hand by his heart, as if trying to contain its erratic beating, and a soft smile on his lips. “You’ve been asleep for almost three days now.”

 _Why am I alive?_ He wants to ask, but he does not want to bother. He does not want Dick to – misinterpret? – or see beyond what he wanted his son to see. “What—” his lips are dry, his throat a bit hoarse.

Dick gasped and suddenly in his hands was a glass of water with a straw in it. “Here.” He said, handing it straight to Bruce’s lips.

Bruce looked at him before sipping, he wanted to hold the glass in his hands, but Dick refused to let go. He does not have enough energy in him to bother, so he let it be. “What happened?” he asked, after he finished almost half of the glass.

Dick placed the glass back at the table beside the makeshift bed before answering, “You—” he took a deep breath, as if the next words were a curse he refuses to utter, “You were shot, dad.”

Bruce paused.

_“You deserve what you—”_

_“—killed him”_

Two memories of the same night flashed in front of his eyes. They were _too_ similar, yet different at the same time. Bruce suddenly found himself confused – which was real? Why did he have two different recollection of the same night?

 _Bruce looked up, expecting to see someone familiar, but was astonished to see a stranger. He was snarling at him – anger and greed clearly reflected on his eyes._ “Who was it?” Bruce asked, looking at his eldest.

Dick remained quiet for a second, he was refusing to meet his father’s eyes. “It was…no one. No one important,” Dick said. “You got shot by a random mugger.” Dick said, finally meeting his father’s eyes. There was pain in it, disbelief, and a hint of disappointment. “You know, after facing up almost all the villains there is in this universe, aliens, metahumans, insane criminals, the _fucking_ Joker – I never,” he paused and looked at his hands. Bruce was a bit taken hearing his eldest curse. He masked his shock in his usual broody frown.

There were tears forming in Dick’s eyes. “I never once thought that I could lose you to just _someone_ with a gun.” He said. His tears cascaded down his cheeks, like a waterfall – he could barely keep them in. He placed a hand on his mouth, holding back a sob. “We were _so close_ to losing you – you have lost a _lot_ of blood – and I can’t—” He placed both of his shielded his eyes with his hands – he was openly sobbing now. “I thought we’ll lose you, dad.” He cried. “We were so close—we were so _fucking_ close.”

Bruce remained quiet, frozen in shock. His eldest was crying, mourning him, as if he was _already_ lost. His son was crying, _and he does not know what to do._ His mind remained blank, his arms felt too heavy to lift, and he could—he does not know what do to. Should he hug him? But, how could he? His son was falling apart _because_ of him –

_Because he was still breathing._

Bruce clenched his fist. He could only do one thing – _stay_ dead – and he even fail at that. He failed his son, he could not take care of him as a father, and he could not take care of him now.

Dick kept on crying and Bruce kept on staring. Dick’s pained sobs and his grasping echoes on the Cave. Bruce wanted to silence him, to reassure him, to make him stop crying, to make him happy – but he does not know how.

Why can’t he do anything? He just felt numb. He thought that the sight of his eldest openly crying would tug at his heart, would hurt him deep, would pain his heart, yet _he felt nothing._ How could he feel empty at the sight of his son crying? What kind of father felt nothing at the sight of his own son crying? What is wrong with him?

_Why can’t he do anything right?_

Dick’s tears seemed to dry up. He sniffled his last, before gently laughing. “Ah, I guess I needed that,” he said before smiling. He hugged his father – _and Bruce does not hug back._ Dick does not seem to mind though, he patted his father’s back, and squeezed him tight. “I’m really glad you’re alright. All of us are.”

He wanted to ask who _they_ are – _where_ are they – but he felt like it must have been too presumptuous of him to ask – _because who would care for someone like him?_

It was selfish of him to even feel _relieved_ that his son actually _cried_ for him – and was beside him, waiting for him to wake up. How selfish of him to want that of his son? Dick should not even be here, bothering and caring for him – people in Bludhaven rely on Nightwing to _save_ them, yet here he is – taking care of his _good for nothing_ father.

_Does his selfishness know no bound?_

He’s a burden to everyone around him. First to his parents, for insisting to see that movie, then to Alfred, for insisting to be his surrogate father after he _killed_ his, then Dick, for filling in that gap in his heart, then Jason, for filling in the void that Dick left behind, then Tim, for filling in the void that Jason left behind after he _killed_ his own son, then Damian, for filling the longing he had to take care of a _son._

He _used_ them – all of them. How selfish of him to use another human being for his own purposes. He is no better than the _villains_ he claims to fight for good. He is no better than them. He _takes and takes, and he never gives-_

“Father?” Damian's voice rang through his thoughts. It penetrated the repeated echoing of his treacherous mind.

Bruce ought to thank him, but how pretentious of him to think that _someone_ would actually save him?

“Father! I am glad that you are awake,” Damian walked with all that dignity of a prince, head held up high, back straight, a deep frown on his face, a look of relief –

_How pretentious of you, Bruce. Don’t kid yourself, no one actually cares._

He was followed by his two brothers, Jason and Tim. Bruce was surprised to see Tim not handling any electronic in his hands, usually you cannot see his third son without any technological machinery in his hands.

_Maybe they actually-_

_Stop with these delusions, Bruce._ The voice sounded suspiciously like his mother’s, if he _does_ still remember correctly what she sounds like.

“What is it? Three days? You worry us old man,” Jason said, a small smile on his lips. His hands were buried in his pockets, his back was sloshed, appearing as casual as one could. “You got mugged? Really? The Bat?” he asked, his voice playful.

But the tone never registered in Bruce’s head, only the words. He felt ashamed for being taken down by a nameless criminal. Jason was right, _him_ , the Batman, mugged like an ordinary citizen in an alleyway –

_“Mom? Mom?” now a five-year-old child is motherless because of him._

_Does his selfishness know no bound?_

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice so soft you could barely hear it. Yet all the occupants of the room heard it as if it was screamed.

The sons exchanged a look with each other, as if asking if they are hearing the same thing.

Bruce sighed, his eyes gazed down on the makeshift bed, glazed over his clenched fist. “I…I apologize for worrying you,” he looked at Dick, desperately trying to convey how _sorry_ he really is, how sincere his apology is –

_How pretentious of you, Bruce._

Then to Jason, who was taken back by the look he received, then to his third – Tim, who gave him a deep frown in return, then to his youngest, Damian, he gave him a small smile before ruffling his head. Damian pouted in turn.

“I was preoccupied,” Bruce said.

“The brat—" Jason said, which in turn Damian responded with a practiced ‘Todd!’, “- said something about gifts?” he does not want to see his father’s crestfallen face, frankly, what son would?

“Why didn’t you just order online?” Tim asked. “I always do mine, online.”

“I do mine a month in advance,” Jason said. They all stared at him as if he grew a second head.

‘ _Really_?’ Official proud mother hen Dick Grayson mouthed.

Jason pouted, which looks eerily similar to Damian's even though they are not related by blood and crossed his arms. “I am a type A person. I don’t procrastinate,” he spat the last word like venom. “Unlike _some_ people,” he sneered at Dick.

Dick shook his hands. “Hey! I-" he paused and thought. _He had not done his_ shopping.

Jason nodded. He raised an eyebrow as if saying _I knew it_. “See?”

Dick laughed and scratched the back of his head. “I’ll do mine, really. I would. I procrastinate, yes, but I get it _done_ ,” he said proudly. “How about you?” Dick asked Damian.

Damian crossed his arms and pouted, as if copying Jason. “I already did mine.”

“Wow. The gremlin knows how to human,” Tim said, amused.

Damian glared at him. “I’ll have you know; I am with Alfred.”

Dick placed both of his hands on his heart and sighed like a lovesick twelve-year-old girl. “Aww,” he wiped a fake tear, “I’m so proud of you little wing.”

“Shut up!” Damian said.

“Oh, the gifts?” Bruce asked, not wanting to disrupt his sons’ battering (it’s amusing, really) but he wanted to know about them – after all, he spent a _significant_ amount of time choosing them.

Dick grinned. “Don’t worry, we didn’t peek, Tim collected them and brought them to Alfred”.

What he didn’t say was, _Tim was the only person who isn’t panicking and has half the mind to gather your belongings. Damian was close to tearing up, Jason was so bloodthirsty to maim someone, and Dick's world was falling apart as his get soaks in his father’s blood, and the only one thought repeatedly echoes in his head, a prayer to anyone’s listening –_

_“Not again, please, don’t take a father away from me –"_

Bruce nodded. He pushed off the blanket and was about to stand when he winced as he aggravated his bullet wound. He was lucky that the criminal only shot him his lower stomach, probably already panicking _after he shot a woman_ –

Immediately, all of his sons were by his side, aiding him.

Bruce felt like a _burden_. He does not _need_ anyone’s help, this is _just_ a bullet wound, nothing he hadn’t had before.

_But Bruce was a selfish bastard._

And he wanted to soak at his sons' worries, to _pretend_ in his little head that they _do_ care, that he was _wanted_ – _not easily replaced_ –

_…his parents moved on. Alfred did._

“I want to sleep in my bed,” Bruce said. He gave his best practiced smile. “It’s just…comfortable,” almost unsure by the end.

“Tt. I told you Father would like to rest in _his_ room, Grayson,” Damian said as he took his father's hand.

Jason was by his side next and put his left arm over his shoulder. “Here, let me. I’m the _tallest,”_ he sneered at Damian.

“Probably because of all that cow waste you drink,” Damian said, not letting go of his father’s hand.

“You should too if you want to grow tall, gremlin,” Tim added.

“Like you drink any,” Damian sneered.

“Hey! My coffee has _cream_.”

“That doesn’t count, stupid.”

Dick, the ever always mediator, butted in. “Hey, dad wants rest, guys, let’s try not to make his head hurt.”

That shut the two up. Jason smugly grinned.

“I can walk by myself, son,” Bruce said, trying to straighten his aching body.

Upon hearing Bruce said 'son', Jason _did not blush shut up._ He helped tightly on his father’s arm. “Shut up, old man.”

Dick laughed before going in front and doing signal gestures like that of a man managing the traffic. “Yes, forward, then left –"

Damian rolled his eyes. “Stop embarrassing yourself, Dick.”

Tim wanted to also hold his father’s hand, but Damian is not letting go, so he instead went in his father’s back and assisted him. He took the medicines left by the table and followed.

Dick led the way and opened doors.

Alfred was both surprised and amused by the sight of his Master Bruce accompanied by his four sons.

Bruce bowed his head, a bit embarrassed.

But he felt at peace, a bit happy. He was surrounded by his sons, and they never left him.

_All because of a bullet._


	15. Bulletproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce obsesses over the concept of a bullet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst :)

**Five hours later. Around 1 AM.**

Bruce woke up to a silent and empty bedroom. His head felt heavy because of the sleeping pills his sons insisted he took earlier –

_“You need all your rest, Father” it is unfortunate that Damian inherited Bruce’s stubborn gene._

He took the glass of water laid on top of the table by his side, probably Dick’s idea. He thanked him in his head. He stretched and look at the clock – 1 am, it says. He looked outside and realized that the moon’s light was the only one reflected in his room. He thought that he woke up around 4 am, and that the sun was just trying to peek in the horizon. Well, it _is_ technically still early morning.

He stood up and walked towards the bathroom – and ran himself a warm bath. He let the water fill in and gently took off his clothes. As he removes his shirt, he felt the ache of the wound on his stomach side. Ever the curious man, Bruce touched the healing bullet wound and winced. He stared at the wound’s dressing – probably _also_ Dick’s doing as the bandage was _pink_ – and felt his heart ache.

Bullets seemed like a constant in his life.

His life as Batman started with a _bullet._

His close encounter with death (the closest he’d come) was also because of a _bullet._

He briefly wondered if it’ll cause his death too.

After removing his clothes, Bruce soaked himself in the bath. He let the warmth of it enveloped him in a welcoming hug. He let out a sighed as he relaxed in it.

Bruce closed his eyes, trying to soak in the peace that a warm bath is supposed to give him. The ache in his head did not simmer, it dulls, and dulls --

_And takes and takes -_

Bruce’s eyes snapped open. His gaze remained unfocused as he stares at the block of wall in front of him. It was white - _plain_ and simple. 

There was a blotch of red floating just beneath it, as if teasing him to take a peek. It lingers at the depth of his perception. Yet his uneven gaze remained stoic. His head, heavy, yet he does not bother. His mind wanders, yet it was as silent as an empty forest in the dead of the night. _Nothing_ and _everything_ happen at once. He felt _empty_ yet sad at the same time. _It hurts,_ something in his chest pains - as if someone is slowly pressing at his heart, twisting, pulling, _it hurts so much_ \- his chest felt heavy, like Bane sits atop of him, crushing him - _yet he can’t feel anything._ The pain lingers at the corner of his mind, but it does not register in his head. He _wanted_ to _know_ that the pain is real - that _this_ is real. 

The blotch of read flickers, its colors brightening. He finally looked down, his gaze regained its focus - on the pale blood, _his_ blood, that decapitated on his bath water. It took him a moment to understand that it came from the gunshot wound that he had acquired three days prior. He felt his bullet wound twitch as if reminding him that it _exists._

He dropped his right hand and graze the wound. As soon as his hand hit the wound, his body jerked reminding him of the pain - and that’s better than nothing, right? 

Slowly, as if testing his resistance, he dipped his finger in the wound. His finger slid perfectly, as if the wound was crafted for it. He shuddered as he pain register in his body - his body subconsciously convulsed, trying to push the offending finger out - it does not belong, it makes everything hurt, _it’s bad...it’ll make things worse -_ he knew better, he _knew_ that this would irritate the wound and may even cause infection, but _it feels right._ It’s wrong, says his head. But it also feels right?

The pain feels right. He had started his life with it - the pain of losing his parents. He used it to make himself a - hero? - to save? Or make it worse? - Gotham. He used the pain in order to deliver it to those who _really_ deserve it - but who gets to decide? You? _You?_

Pain is a constant in the life of Bruce Wayne. Seems like every single time that he tried to live _right_ everything goes to shit - he _tried_ to save Dick’s life, he _tried_ to save Jason’s life from that of criminality, he _tried_ to give a home to Tim, he _tried_ to be a better father to Damian - and _what happened Bruce?_

Did you make it better? Did Dick’s life become better? Did Jason’s action deprive of delinquency? Doesn’t he use _guns?_ Doesn’t he _kill?_ Doesn’t he become acquaintances with _criminals?_ Wasn’t he _dead?_

_You killed him, Bruce._

You did not make _anything_ better - you just prolonged it. You _pushed_ him to become that person. You _pushed_ Dick to his limit - _almost_ got killed as a teenager, as _Robin_ \- you pushed him to become Robin.

As if that’s not enough, you _pushed_ Jason too. And get this, Bruce, you actually _got_ him killed! Fantastic isn’t it? You succeeded in killing your child! He _became who he is because you._

What’s your excuse Bruce? What do you have to say for yourself?

He pushed his finger deeper in his wound and swallowed the cry of pain. 

_“You deserve what you got.”_ The criminal’s voice rang true. This is his punishment; this is his redemption. 

He gasped and stared at the red blanket that envelops him. He deserved this. He deserved the pain, he deserved being shot – this is just a bullet reminding him of _who_ he is, of _what_ he had done, of what _must_ be done. He deserved getting shot, not as Batman – because he does not exist – but as _him,_ as Bruce Wayne –

The young child that never grew out of his trauma.

Poor Bruce, left parent-less…

Poor Bruce, left unloved…

Poor Bruce, _who would even want you?_

He could fear the water sliding into the wound, as blood pours out to make room. _You’ve done this,_ his mind whispers. _You’ve caused this_ , it reasons.

_Had you died in that alleyway –_

It does not finish, but Bruce heard all the same.

Yes, had he died that night, perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps all the lives that he had took – for what? _What’s your excuse Bruce –_

_They would move on._

_His parents did._

_Alfred did._

His sons would – god knows they’re just _tolerating_ his presence. Jason hated him. Damian can’t stand to be in the same room as him. Dick pretends to be happy, but Bruce _knew_ he isn’t. And Tim – he’s just _too_ blindsided by his own grief to stay with him.

Bruce _manipulated_ them – oh gods, he realized it now. He used Dick’s grief over his parents’ death to make him stay _with_ him. He used the promise of comfort to lure Jason to his home. He used Tim’s abusive past with his family to make him _– his._ He used Damian –

Gods, _does his selfishness know no bound?_

He used their situation against their well-being. He _made_ them like him – _because who would? Unless he made them, who would ever love him?_

Pathetic. That’s who he is. Dying of thirst for any kind of love, trying to fill in that gap that his parents leave behind – gods, even Alfred, he should have relieved him of his duties long before, he could barely tolerate his presence. Yet he forced them. He forced them all.

_How dare you, Bruce? How dare you!_

He felt shame and guilt – over-consuming guilt, wrap at his heart and squeezed – hard, _hard,_ until he could barely breathe –

_Why are you still breathing?_


	16. Bruce V Batkids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and his sons engaged in some friendly combat. Alfred noticed something about Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff before the angst ;)

When Damian walked in the dining room, he was astonished to see that his father is already there. He had an empty plate in front of him, which is good since that means he had already eaten. He was chatting with Alfred, who sat beside him, in Dick’s usual seat, and drinking his coffee – which was surprisingly had cream (he usually takes it black).

“Morning, Father,” Damian said as he took a seat. There’s already a breakfast plate served in his seat. His father was not a bit surprised at his presence.

“Morning, son. Where’s your brothers?” he asked. Alfred stood up and refilled his coffee. “Thank you,” he said to Alfred.

Damian continued eating. “Probably still asleep?”

“Master Dick went back to his apartment, sir. As with Master Jason,” Alfred said, he did not fail to notice how Bruce was saddened by it, “however, they informed me that they shall be back by afternoon.”

“And Tim?” Bruce asked.

“Well, what do the younglings call it, a night owl?” Alfred said.

“Night owl?”

“Means he’s a late sleeper,” Damian said. “Probably won’t be awake till noon.”

Bruce made an ‘oh’ sound. Damian found it amusing.

“Would you like me to wake him up? I shall prepare a cold water,” Damian said, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Bruce chuckled. “That’s unnecessary.” He took a sip. “But, would you like to?”

“What? Pour water on him? Always,” Damian said with a grin.

Bruce smiled. “Then pretend it’s on my orders.”

Damian grinned. He wolfed down his remaining food before standing up in haste.

“Ah! Don’t forget your milk, sir.” Alfred said, eyes flaring with threat.

Damian grunted. He closed his eyes and drank it in one gulp. He shuddered but all but ran towards the hall to prepare a _very_ , _very_ cold bucket of water. He dashed towards the kitchen with a pale and filled it with ice.

Alfred and Bruce looked at him with amusement. “That is cruel of you sir,” Alfred said, but there’s a hint of smile on his lips.

“Ah, boys will be boys,” Bruce said, grinning. “And if I remember correctly, _you_ also like to do it on me.”

Alfred did not answer. He did not deny either.

The Manor was shaken by Tim’s girlish shriek, followed by a shout pure of hatred, “DAMIAN!!!”

His father invited him in a spar. It was a bit weird, though not uncommon. He was trained by the League, but he also learned a lot from his father. The League taught him how to kill, how to extinguish a life without remorse. His father taught him the opposite, he taught him mercy – humbleness. They may be criminals, but they are just as human as he is. He does not have the right to decide who gets to breathe, who may repent, and those beyond redemption.

Though, he secretly agrees with his older brother, Jason. Yes, they may be just as human, but there certainly those who had lost their humanity, human beings who are beyond redemption, beings who had maimed without remorse, beings whose wickedness was already mixed in their blood, beings who can’t ever be saved.

His ethics is a bit utilitarian, he realized.

His father was dressed in a simple track suit jogging pants and a loose shirt. He was stretching his shoulders.

Damian stared at him as he does his own routine.

“Just because you’re ten, I won’t get easy on you,” Bruce said, a playful smirk on his lips.

Damian felt giddy with excitement. “If you love me, you won’t.” He was walking towards his sword when Bruce stopped him.

“We’ll go mono-o-mono,” he said pumping up his fists.

Damian's eyes widened. He trusts his skills even without a sword, but he felt more at ease when he was using them. Nevertheless, he shrugged and accepted the challenge.

Tim yawned as he entered the cave, in his hand was a huge tumbler no doubt filled with caffeine. He peeked at them before shrugging and walking towards the Batcomputer, “Call me when you’re done kicking his ass, dad.” He said before murmuring some schematics about the Brother Eye program.

Damian rolled his eyes. “You wish.”

Bruce straightened, “Ready?”

Damian nodded before attacking.

Jason came home to the sight of his youngest brother flying. Damian tried to attack their father with a spinning flying kick when Bruce docked, caught it midair, then whipped him around, throwing him across the floor.

Damian grunted as he fell on the floor.

Jason clapped out loud and laughed. “Nice throw dad!” he screamed. He could sense the humiliation and hatred mixing in the air. Damian glared at him with pure venom, but Jason was too thick skinned to care.

“Why don’t you try, Jason?” Bruce said.

Jason chuckled. “And risk Dick's anger when your wound reopened? I don’t think so,” he crossed his arms, feigning all confidence.

Tim stretched from his side, ignoring his younger brother getting up, nursing his bruised back and pride. “Never pegged you for a coward, Jay,” he said as he and his father started circling.

Jason's eyebrow twitch. He’s too old to be mocked and play this chicken game, but damn it, he’s too prideful to ignore the jab.

Tim and Bruce exchanged blows. Tim was agile and quick, but Bruce had years of experience in his belt. As Tim gave him a punch, Bruce twisted just in time and used his son’s moment to bring him down.

Tim grunted, defeated.

Damian laughed, delighted that he isn’t the only one who got his ass kicked.

Bruce turned towards his second, “Too scared?” he said with a mocking grin.

Jason grunted before removing his shoes. “I’ll go easy on you, old man,” he said before stretching. “Don’t want you whining to Dick about it later.”

Bruce rolled his eyes (the same way Damian do). He smirked before, this time, attacking first.

Jason anticipated his move and dodged, Bruce was quick to follow.

They exchanged blows, kicks, punches, Jason did a twist before kicking Bruce midair. Bruce blocked it but the force sent him on the mat.

Bruce did not waste time and stood up and attacked Jason from the ground, Jason, still feeling from the midair kick, was few milliseconds too late that allowed Bruce to imbalance him. As soon as he did so, he kicked Jason, but Jason blocked it. Bruce anticipated the block, however, and punched him in the arm, then holding it to bring Jason down.

Jason fell and grunted; arms twisted. He tried to catch his gun but forgot that he removed it after removing the shoes. Bruce caught the movement and grunted, he caught his hand and slammed it on the mat.

“Don’t rely on your gun. A gun is a weapon, an extension. It is not _you_ ,” he said before letting Jason go.

Jason massaged his aching arm, Bruce’s grip was quite tight. “Damn, going all philosophical on me?” he said, teasing. The words echoed in his head, nevertheless.

“What is going on here?!” Official mother hen descended from the stairs leading towards the cave. His hands are in his waste and a stern glance, coming second only to Alfred’s strength, was pointed at them.

All of the other remaining member grunted, like teenagers getting scolded.

“Bruce! Your wounds!” Dick said before walking towards Bruce. His hand outstretched when Bruce took it with an intent to use Judo to bring him down.

Instinct kick in and Dick made an inhumane gymnastic move to counter it. Bruce found himself losing balance and Dick used it to bring him down.

For the first time, Bruce hit the mat.

It took Bruce exactly five seconds before processing that his oldest son did indeed took him done. He counted three breaths from Dick before kicking his heels to bring himself up. Dick moved along with him and they engaged in another combat. Bruce used Dick's love for somersaulting (he has acrobat in his veins) and trapped him in an attack by, which predictably Dick avoided with a back jump. Bruce dived on his hands and used it to break his momentum. Dick gasped before trying to jump forward to stand but Bruce pulled and brought Dick down.

Dick laughed as his back hit the mat. “Damn that’s nice,” he complemented his father as if he allowed himself to be brought down.

Bruce huffed before helping his eldest up.

Damian, as usual, stomped his foot on the ground like a spoil child that he is. He ran towards Bruce and crossed his arms, “I demand another round!”

Jason was rubbing the back of his head, he coughed, “Uhm, I too…”

Tim looked at the two of them then to Bruce before nodding as well.

Dick laughed before scratching Damian's head then wrapping his arm over Jason’s shoulders. “How about we play by team?”

Jason cracked his knuckles. “I’ll go independent.”

Dick tutted. “Anyone going solo is out.”

Jason looked at Bruce. Bruce pretended to think before nodding. “Damn,” Jason cursed.

“Language!” Bruce reprimanded.

Jason looked at Tim and Damian before grabbing Damian's arm to his side. “I’ll side with the squirt.”

“I’ll take Tim,” Bruce surprised everyone, especially Tim.

He hid his blush as he went towards his father’s side.

“Unfair!” Damian yelled.

Dick went to Damian and ruffled his hair, Damian tried to dodge but Jason trapped him with his body. “It’s okay little wing,” he smirked, his eyes glistening with suppressed glee and blood-lust. “We’ll take them down.”

Tim prepared his stance. “No way.”

Jason and his other brothers prepared theirs. “Ready?”

All of them exchanged looks before nodding.

Jason and Dick were the first to attack, then quickly exchanged places, they move in sync. Damian steadily phased himself at their center, waiting as an ambush.

Bruce stood in front of Tim, while Tim, moved behind him as back up.

Then they clashed.

**An Hour Later.**

“Master Bruce?” Alfred entered the cave with the intent of inviting his adopted son to an afternoon tea. He knew a good tea that would sooth his son's physical wound.

He was delighted when he found his Master Bruce and his sons all laid down on the mat, murmuring softly as they recount what happened during their training.

He could hear Bruce also pointing out the flaws and how to counter them after each of his son exchanged their battle recounts.

It was such a nice way to hear them talking casually, even if it still about battle. Nice to see them bonding like the small family that they really are. Jason kept denying that he’s part of this family, yet seeing him excitedly teasing and praising his little brothers, he is without a doubt a Wayne. He would try and ask his adoptive son if he could talk to his sons, or maybe he could for him, and convince them to move back (since they basically spent most of the day here anyway).

Alfred almost does not want to interlude with the scene in front of him (he already took a picture), they all seemed busy and too engrossed with their stories.

“Ah, Alfred!” Bruce said, without looking at his direction.

Alfred walked towards them, “I was wondering if you want some afternoon tea, Master Bruce.”

Bruce sat and stretched. “Of course.”

The other sons were quick to follow. “Are there cookies?” Dick asked.

Alfred nodded, giving them a soft smile.

“Sweet!” Dick said before – running towards the Kitchen.

“Shit! He’s going to swallow them!” Jason said running towards his eldest.

“Save some from me you monsters!” Tim yelled before following.

“Grayson you will get yourself diabetes!” Damian screamed as he ran with them.

Bruce laughed. “I didn’t know they inherited my sweet tooth.” Then he paused, “Have they been eating my cookies, Alfred? Is that why my box is almost always empty?”

Alfred nodded, he wanted to add all the thievery that his sons had done to his stuff, but decided against it.

Bruce smiled, though it was a bit sad.

Alfred was caught by the gesture. Why is his master saddened? He could see that the thought warmed Bruce inside, but he was baffled by the sadness he caught in his eyes.

“Alfred,” his mussing was broken by Bruce, he stared at him, the sadness gone from his eyes, there’s an oddly peace in it, a kind of blissful serenity, like he had accepted something he had fighting against, “Would you like to join me for a tea?”

Alfred nodded, he rarely deny Bruce anything. “Yes, I will,” _as long as I live, I shall be by your company_

**Library.**

It was the only place safe from the chaos that is Bruce's sons. As usual, they engaged in another Battle Royale for the cookies. After a stern look from Alfred, they quietly moved their fight outside. Their hands firmly clasped on the cookies, not trusting each other not to just ran and escape with it.

Honestly, hey could Alfred for more, and he would not say no. So he was still confused why they kept on fighting over it, he could always bake for more?

Maybe it’s their shy way of asking each other to play. Like their emotionally stunted father, they engaged their love ones in battle so they could spend time with them.

Alfred suppressed a sigh.

He and Bruce were in the library quietly overlooking the kids as they battle for the cookies. The personal library of Bruce was in the second floor of the mansion, it has a wide and tall gothic designed window that overlook the front yard.

Bruce chuckled as he saw Damian and Tim working to defeat their eldest. Alfred hid his smile behind a sip.

Bruce, not removing his eyes from his sons’ irrational yet entertaining battle royale, asked Alfred, “Do you like working in the Manor?”

Alfred paused. He placed down his mug. Silence enveloped them.

He chuckled. “Your father asked me the same time, once, Master Bruce.”

Bruce paused. He looked at him, his eyes questioning. Yet there’s always the soft grief reflected in him whenever he thought of his parents. Time never heal wounds, it merely made it bearable.

“Well?” Bruce asked, eyes not leaving his.

Alfred looked at him and smiled. “I am always thankful for being here.”

Bruce stared at him; Alfred could see his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Bruce coughed. He averted his eyes. He looked over his sons and stood up. “Thank you for the tea, Alfred.”

Alfred nodded, before standing up as well, prepared to fix the plates. He was surprised when he was enveloped in a tight hug.

Bruce’s arms were warm. And Alfred hugged back. “Thank you,” Bruce whispered.

Alfred smiled before patting him in the back. “You’re always welcome, Master Bruce.”

Bruce nodded before walking. “I’ll be in my room.”

Alfred amusingly answered, “And I shall be preparing dinner.”

Bruce nodded, then his figure disappeared.

* * *

_**Trigger Warning!** Suicidal Thoughts and Attempted Suicide _

* * *

**Later that night. Hours after dinner.**

Bruce stood over his warmed bath, he sat by the edge of the tub, his hand playfully gliding over the water top.

He felt oddly calm, contended with how the day had been.

He was reassured by his sons, they had proven well, Dick could replace him as Batman, had the time come. And Alfred…he could take care of the rest of them. He knew that he would, he had taken care of Bruce after his parent’s death after all. He would not leave his sons, not let them suffer in their own grieves.

He paused.

He could do so, he wasn’t afraid. It felt oddly satisfying, in a way, that he could control his life to the extent of stopping it. For all of his time, he had tried to control everything. He controlled his fears to become a vigilante. He controlled his grief over his parents' death to continue living, _existing_. He controlled his fragmented emotions, to be strong, to be _enough_ of a father to his sons – adopted and otherwise. He controlled his _very_ existence to continue living in it. And now, he’ll finally letting go.

He took of the bandage and touched his healing wound.

_No longer a burden…._

He shook the battle; he did not bother counting the spilled pills before swallowing them dry. It will take a while before they will take effect. But it’ll be alright, his mind was blissfully empty.

_No longer in control…._

He dipped his body over the warm water and let it envelop him in a hug.

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath before submerging his head over the water.

The water bubbled as air left his nose. They floated up over the surface and settled there before popping.

It kept on, once…twice…

Then it stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queue: ‘See you again’ song after reading that last sentence. It’ll make you cry. It made me cry.


	17. Alternate Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate scene after Bruce hit the mat:

Jason, Tim, and Damian's jaw dropped. Dick, meanwhile, was panicking. He lifted his father’s shirt to check on his bandage and was glad that it wasn’t bleeding through. His brothers were ignored as he fusses over his father. “The hell were you thinking brucie bear?!” he scolded.

Bruce blinked his eyes open, before smiling. He tapped Dick’s shoulder. Dick looked at him, perplexed. He slumped his arm over his son’s shoulder, “You’ll make a great Batman someday.”

The other boys gasped, Damian’s the loudest. “That is unfair!” he whined. “I am the blood son—”

“And you’re only ten,” Jason interrupted.

Tim shrugged. “Well, it does make sense, Dick is the oldest after all—” he tapped Damian’s shoulder, “and father took you down in like a minute or two.”

Damian took out his sword. “I will shut you up, permanently.”

Tim does not even appear mildly threatened. “You need to be at least this tall to look threatening—”

“Boys!” Bruce said, from where he stands. “Behave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt it'll be a waste just having this lying around my document hehe


	18. Rainbow Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce woke up to another missed death. This time, he woke up to the sight of his second son - Jason. How did he react to the fact that his father almost committed suicide?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a bit delay, the sadness of this fic is getting to me lol

His gaze was hazy as he blinked the darkness away.

For the second time that week, Bruce felt disappointed for failing.

Then anger.

Hatred burned within him, ruthlessly burning in his veins. He crawled away the hands holding him down – he gasped as he was injected with something, no doubt to calm him down.

He grasped at the empty air. The world was noisy when he opened his eyes, which is why he is partly thankful when silence came to him.

* * *

The second time he woke around, he was calmer, perhaps no doubt thanks to the medicine administered to him earlier.

This time, Jason was there to greet him. He was sitting by his side, calm, eyes heavy as he gaze at the hands of Bruce laying beside him. “You’re awake,” he said, voice devoid of any emotions.

 _Are you happy that I am?_ He wanted to ask. Yet he was too tired to voice anything. _Or are you just as angered as I am?_

Jason remained silent. They were in his room, he noticed.

“Was it an accident?” Jason’s voice remained the same tone.

Bruce does not want to answer.

“Tell me.”

“Why?” Bruce’s voice was hoarse, as if it has been long since he last spoke. How long did it take them?

Jason remained quiet. Staring at him, Bruce saw the calm before the storm. His breathing was heavy, as if he was barely repressing his emotions. Bruce could see clearly the _anger_ that desperately try to crawl it’s way up on his throat. He could see the dragon barely containing the fire in his mouth. Bruce wanted to push his son, push him until he lashed out at him. Punch him, hurt him, tell him _how fucking pathetic_ it is what he had done.

Because that is who he is, a pathetic human being.

One who could barely contain his grief for another _goddamn second_ , one who could barely swallow his pathetic existence, one who failed to endure like _fucking everyone else._

_You thought you’re the only one hurting? People lost more than you did, Bruce. Yet, you’re the only one pathetic enough to let go –_

Bruce could barely blink the tear away, like ice, he could feel it cascade down his cheek.

Jason was too engrossed in his slipping control to notice. He liked to pretend that he felt the least, but his emotions have always been heightened. He was ecstatic as a child, full of wonder, full of light. Then it was taken away from him, forcefully plunged away from his soul. Then he became a void, for a second he was left with nothing. Then the anger boiled, then hatred, disappointment – he became a potluck of emotions swirling in his too swollen, too tired, heart. It burst – then like a Phoenix, he was reborn from the ashes of the past. He became Red Hood. Then he became Jason Todd, and finally, back to a Wayne. He’s back to the Manor, his home.

And what did Bruce welcome him with?

A bathtub full of blood and a father who drowned himself.

_Does your selfishness know no bound?_

Hate me, my son. For I have wronged you.

I have failed you.

“Jason,” his voice broke. He wanted to cry, yet he felt so exhausted.

“I told you how my mother died,” Jason said, his shoulders began to shake, “I found her with a half empty bottle of gin, and an empty bottle of her sleeping pills." He looked at his father, the wound of coming home to his mother's cold body was reflected on his eyes. “I thought, she was merely sleeping,” his tears began to fall, “I tried to shake her awake,” his voice cracked, “but she didn’t wake up.” He cried, yet his stare remained glued to Bruce. “You didn’t wake up, and for a second I thought it’s happening again,” he clenched his fist and stood up. “how could you do that to me dad?! How fucking could you?!”

Bruce remained quiet, swallowing the pain and the anger that Jason delivered to him freely.

“I trusted you, I forgave you for what you did for my death –“ he paused, swallowing another burst of emotion. “And look where it got me, what you’ve done.” There’s more pain and betrayal than anger in him. Yet all Bruce could see, all that translate in his mind, was disappointment.

For just as he was, he saw his son as disappointed as he is.

“I’m sorry,” his voice was so soft it could pass as a whisper.

But Jason heard it all the same. He glared at him, the years, the mistake, that he thought had long since passed between them began to resurface. He remained silent, denying Bruce of an answer.

But Bruce tried again anyway, he was pass the point of feeling embarrassed. He was pathetic, he knew. “I’m sorry,” he said again, voice softer.

Jason did not answer. “Take a rest, Dick would be here shortly.” He stood up from his seat, “I’ll tell them you’re awake.”

As he was heading towards the door, Bruce once more spoke, “Son, I’m sorry.”

But Jason did not answer.


	19. Rainbow Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did the other boys react to Bruce's apparent attempted suicide?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may notice, all the following chappies will contain nothing but angst :) so prepare your heart fellas!

Bruce tries to prepare himself to the sight of his eldest. He did not know what to expect, what to _feel._ He was so confused, his mind became a numb organ – void of any thought. Will he be welcomed by Dick’s tears? Or will it be the same flare, the same anger that Jason had given him?

Jason was right, he pointed out well what Bruce had done – he had _failed_ his sons, once again placed his feelings before himself, once again thought of nothing but himself, his selfishness got the better of him.

Why should he take his life? Who gave him the right to escape the world, when all around him, when _his own son_ s are suffering the same as he? What gave him the out? Why must he be the one to be freed? Shouldn’t he be the last to be freed? After all, it was _his_ fault that his sons were suffering, his _fault_ that Alfred was stuck taking care of an aging man like he. It was _his_ fault that his world was crumbling, it was _his_ choice to suffer, to drown in his sorrow and grief, to _not move on_ , it was his choice to silently cry every night, his choice to use his battle, his persona as Batman to cope – it was all his choice, his sadness, his misery, was all his own doing.

So, who must be blame?

No one but him. Woe the Bat. Woe the rich kid who cried every night. Woe the aging man who cannot forget one night. Woe him.

_Pathetic._

“Father?” it was Damian who opened the door. His son’s little head – he was only ten, Bruce, you’re going to leave your ten-year-old son, _ten?! You are eight when your parents died, at least he has two more years, huh Bruce?_ – peek, looking if his father was awake.

Bruce nodded, despite knowing that Damian may not be able to see it. “Come in.”

Damian did so, pushing the door. He entered, and in his back was Tim and Dick. Tim and Damian’s eyes were focused on him, on his injuries. Dick’s was trained on the ground.

It was unnerving to see Dick in not his usual bubbly self, it was as if the world was spinning in the wrong direction.

_And whose fault was that, Bruce? Whose fault was it?_

_Yours._

“Are you okay?” His youngest asked. He stood by his bedside.

Bruce patted his side, and Damian jumped to it. Bruce hugged his youngest. “I’m sorry, son. I made a mistake.”

Damian, as a child in his age, despite seeing blood since he was a baby, did not understand the underlying message Bruce tried to bury in his words. “Your pills are meant to be taken before you go to bed, father. Not while you’re in the bath.”

Bruce nodded. “Yes, I am sorry. I was tired – “

“Kicking Tim’s ass, no doubt,” Damian said, sneering at Tim.

Tim grunted.

Bruce laughed, before ruffling his son’s head. “Yes, I mistook my strength and pushed myself.”

“You are healing, dad,” Tim said. “You got a bullet wound. I knew I should’ve stopped you.”

“But we had fun, didn’t we?” he looked through his sons, to Tim, to Damian, and to Dick, who still remained quiet and whose he cannot meet.

“Yes. But father, please, heal properly,” Damian said. “You body needs some rest, too.”

Tim nodded. “I’ve checked your vitals with the Brother Eye, which is 98% done – it calculated that you must remain in bed for at least another week, before engaging in another extraneous activity like sparring.”

Bruce smiled, “One week?”

Tim nodded.

Damian nodded as well. “For once I agree with my brother, father. Please do remain rested for at least a week.”

Bruce pretended to consider.

“Father!” Damian yelled, then pouted.

“Yes, yes,” he grabbed Damian and Tim into a hug, “I…” his voice, soft, pleading, “I am really sorry.”

Damian and Tim hugged back.

“You are forgiven, father.” Damian said, Tim nodded in agreement. “As long as you promise to remain rested.” His eyes conveyed that he (and Tim) would tie him in the bed if Bruce hinted a denial.

Bruce nodded and shuffled their heads. “Alright, kiddos.”

Tim nodded. He looked at Dick, whose eyes had skipped to staring at Bruce. He seemed to understand that he wanted some time with their father. So, he grabbed Damian and caught his eyes in a pleading manner. Damian understood, “Father,” he said before going for another short hug. He followed Tim outside.

Once the door closed, the silence began to eat at Bruce’s grate, like little insects itching beneath his skin. It was uncomfortable, _too much_ , that he wanted to rattle his son and demand something – a shout, maybe? Just any reaction will do.

He cannot stand another silence, like what Jason gave him before he left.

“Why did you do it?” Dick asked, for unlike his youngest, he _knew_ what Bruce had done.

But Bruce, as he had observed with his second, chose to lie. “It was…it was an accident.”

Tears began to form in Dick’s eyes. “But did you want it?”

Bruce was silenced by the question.

Dick sniffed his cry. “Did you _want_ to?” There’s weight in his question that crushed Bruce’s heart.

 _Yes,_ he wanted to answer. _Yes, I want to._

But he chose to lie, “It was an accident.”

Dick openly cried. He placed both of his hands on his face in an attempt to stop the tears, but it kept coming. “I almost lost you twice, Bruce.” He placed down his hands and stared at Bruce, his eyes filled with barely contained grief. “Please, don’t do this to me, dad. I can’t lose another parent. Not like this. Not like this.”

This time, Bruce gathered all his energy to hug his son. Dick gripped the back of his shirt. He buried his head on his father’s shoulder. Bruce’s shoulder began to get wet. But neither of them noticed. This time, the silence enveloped them well. Dick’s cries echoed in the room and Bruce, no matter how much he kept on repeating apologies and reassurances, cannot make his son’s cries stop.

So, Bruce let it. He let his son cry on his shoulder, he let him mourn what he had done, a mistake – he said. A mistake, that all it is, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be about Alfred and Bruce. ;)


	20. Fundamentally Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can you fix someone who is fundamentally broken?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because i love you guys, here's a new chapter to celebrate the new year <3

Alfred was the last that he saw that night. He was neither angry nor in grief. He was silent as he sat beside Bruce.

“You told me once, that this won’t happen again.” He said, after a moment of silent. His eyes were trailed ahead, in front of him. Bruce stare at him, but Alfred won’t meet his eyes. “You promised me, Bruce” – no Master, no honorifics, just his name. _Plain and simple._ “You promised me before –“

“But I did it, again.” Bruce finished for him. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” Alfred said. “It was a mistake, well, I hope it was what you _consider_ it to be,” finally he stared at Bruce. He was tired, so tired of it all. “Will you consider therapy, again?” he asked.

Bruce sighed. He stared at his hand. Part of him wanted to, knew that it _could_ help. But a larger part of him was just _tired_ – hopeless, “How can you fix someone who is fundamentally broken?”

He had done therapy before. He had gone through medicine. He had gone through exercising, meditation, he made Batman for fuck’s sake – and yet it’s still _there._ His grief, his sadness, his misery – his fucking depression, _there I gave it a fucking name_ – it never disappeared. It was a part of him, a part of his soul.

Why can’t we just stop pretending that it’s a disease that _can be healed_. It’s not. _Misery is Bruce._ It is a part of him – as long as he breathes, as long as he’s alive, he would always have that. It will never leave him – for it _is_ him.

Why can’t Alfred understand that?

Alfred remained quiet.

It is an endless cycle – he’ll get better, he’ll forget, then something happens, and he’ll go down again, he’ll grieve, he’ll cry, then life will give him a glimpse of a happiness, a drop of water for a man dying of thirst – then it’ll ripe it away from him, and he’ll chase and chase –

_And takes…and takes…_

It’s better to just accept what it _is,_ to at least learn how to live with it. Because what else can he do? He had tried _everything_ that he could think of, everything that was suggested to him – been there, done that – yet here he had _done it again,_ he had tried to escape.

It was bright, then it was dark, Bruce was just tired of the light, tired of the darkness, he was just tired of _everything._

“I know that you are tired, Master Bruce,” Alfred spoke, as if he had just read what Bruce had in mind. “I understand –” _no you don’t,_ Bruce wants to yell. _You can’t understand what I had gone through, what I felt, stop fucking with me, STOP LYING TO ME,_ but his mouth remained shut, “ – that it may have not gone well. But isn’t that the beauty of it? That we could try again?” There was a silent plea in his eyes, Alfred was doubtful that his words were enough, but still he hoped. “You have your sons now, Bruce. They needed you,” _to be better._

Bruce scowled inside. _They needed someone else, **not you**. _

_Because who could ever want you?_

Bruce knew that the gap that his parents left behind had never been filled in, that a part of him had truly died with his parents that night, and no matter how much, no matter how hard he tried to fill in that gap – it just wasn’t enough, _nothing_ could ever be enough. Even him? Isn’t it? Even _he_ wasn’t enough.

Why don’t people just stop pretending that they care about him? _Who could even want you?_ No one wants to be with him, even his parents left him, his sons – he _forced_ them to with him, Alfred – it was his _duty_ , an obligation that he needs to _do,_ but no one _chose_ to be with him. Why can’t we all just stop pretending that _Bruce_ was even wanted.

_Such a poor child, left behind –_

_Such a poor child, all alone, forgotten –_

_Never forgiven –_

He clenched his hands into a fist, he wanted to _hurt_ himself – to make him _feel_ something, to _justify_ his hurt – because if there’s pain, if he’s _physically_ hurt, then that means that the pain within him, the pain that he felt, had _meaning._

He looked at his wrist, at his arm – they’re too _clean_ , too white – it needed something – _something_ that lined it, red marks that _meant_ that he had done something wrong. For who else would know how wrong he was, than himself? Who else could take the blame than he?

He needed Alfred out, he needed to be _alone –_ himself, and his thoughts – his mind, he needed to sort it out – his arms, he needed a reminder – _something_ to be done.

“I…” he swallowed down, he could feel his throat squeezing, like a part of him wanted to yell, a pathetic cry for help – but he swallowed it all down, down to the depth of his stomach, _hidden_ , away, no one _needed_ to know how pathetic he is, “…I’ll think about it,” his eyes remained glued at his bedsheet, he knew that if he lifted his head, then Alfred would see through his lies – he had always been a good reader, he _knows_ , he could see what Bruce hides. So Bruce will try to be extra careful. He _needs_ to.

Alfred remained quiet. Bruce could hear his deep breathing, could almost hear his contemplation despite the endless echoes resounding in his brain. He wanted his adopted father to leave – to leave him alone, for a while. Can’t he do that? Can’t he just do that for him?

Alfred coughed, before standing up. “Then please do rest, Master Bruce,” the addition of the honorific felt like a stab to Bruce’s heart. He could feel tears forming at the corner of his eyes, but he held on. He nodded, just to reassure his butler – _because that is all he had ever been, that is all Bruce has ever been to him, an obligation, a duty._

Bruce felt like he could collapse in relief as he heard the door closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this is the hardest part that I write, because this is what I kept asking myself. How can you heal something that is a part of you?


	21. Someone Save The Poor Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watch as man crumble to pieces. Watch as a man push away a son that cares too much. Watch as a man was reminded of a family, he thought he does not have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dick & Bruce feels. Tim & Bruce feels too.

Bruce closed his eyes, trying to will away the tears that are coming. He had done them wrong; he had done all his sons wrong. How could he do this to them? How could he try to die and _not succeed?_ How pathetic of him to commit suicide in the most unimaginative way – seriously, _forced drowning?_

He could have had better luck had he slit his wrist. Let the blood pool at the end of his hand, let it drip like paint on a canvas. Or perhaps a bullet – end his life with another one pointed at the top of his head.

That would’ve given him a better result. But pills and water? What came over his mind to have done that?

He solved crimes as a hobby, and he couldn’t commit a perfect suicide – how pathetic is that?

Even if he wanted to try again, no longer will his sons allow him – _or perhaps they’re just waiting for him to do so? So, they could finally get rid of him without trying so hard, it’ll solve the problems, anyway. It’ll make everything finally right –_

But what he told Damian was right, perhaps it was really an accident? He was too lost in his own thoughts, _too preoccupied,_ to rethink how many he had gathered on his palm. He just wanted to sleep better – relax better in the tub, surely, he had not been thinking to end his life?

The contradictions were making his head hurt and he wanted to take ­– _how many more pills? Forty? How many could he take to make sure that it’ll be done right –_ something, to make it all stop. But when his eyes linger on his bedside table, he could not find the usual bottle of pills. He tried digging into the usual cabinets, but they are all empty – void of anything.

Anger bubbled on Bruce’s chest, are they treating him like a child? Afraid that he might use _something_ to hurt himself? He had more self-control than that! _Yes,_ he had thought of hurting himself – painting his arms with lines of red, but that does not guarantee that he’ll _do_ it. (Maybe if he saw a blade – but that’s beside the point)

The door opened and Dick came, in his arm were a tray with a glass of milk, and a plate of cookies. They stared at each other. Bruce coughed before going back to his bed.

Dick walked towards him. Bruce noticed that his eyes were red. He looked so tired.

Dick paused before putting the tray on the bedside. Bruce also remained silent. The same thought was going through their heads – _Pills. Pills. Pills._

_How many could Bruce take?_

“I brought you a glass of milk,” Dick said, pointing out the obvious.

Bruce nodded but remained quiet. He did not know what to say, what to think – _how_ to react, what to do – does he scream at his son? Where are the goddamn pills? Why did you bring me milk? Why are you treating me like a goddamn child –

“And…also some cookies,” Dick said, pointing at the plate. Bruce looked over the plate, there’s two cookies in it, and from the looks of it, it was fresh out the oven.

Bruce nodded. “What else?”

Dick looked shocked. “What do you mean?”

Bruce sighed, here it goes, “Where’s my medication?”

Dick’s eyes hardened. “What do you mean?” he repeated.

Bruce’s started to raise his voice, anger evident on his reddening face. He seldom loses control like this – but his insides felt all mushed up, his emotions mixing rapidly that his brain couldn’t name it at all – “I’m healing from a bullet wound. And I need something to help me sleep.”

Dick was getting angry as well. “That’s why I brought you milk!”

“But that isn’t enough. I’m not a goddamn child!”

“Then stop acting like one!” Dick yelled over. There were tears at the corner of his eyes. “You overdosed, _dad.”_ He said, every word enunciated with barely contained rage. He was hurting and he does not know how to tell his father how _worried_ and panicked they _all_ had been. He put a hand over his head, massaging it. “We…we don’t want it to happen again, is all,” he tried to explain.

But Bruce was so engrossed in his _own hurt_ , his own anger. “Leave.” He said.

Dick looked shocked. “I—”

Without thinking, Bruce took the glass of milk and threw it at Dick.

Dick gasped in shock as he was drowsed in milk, _that he specifically prepared for his father who is healing._ Bruce looked equally shock at what he had done. But he doesn’t want to be as pathetic as he had been. He refused to.

He tried his best to hold onto that fading anger. “I said leave!”

Dick looked at him, hurt flashed in his eyes. He nodded before doing as told. The sound of the closing door was deafening to Bruce’s ears. He took a broken glass shard, and gripped it tight on his fist, blood started pooling out from his sliced hand. But it did not deter him, it merely fueled his desire – to _see_ more, to _hurt_ more, because he _deserve_ it, he deserve to hurt, to feel the pain, he needed it.

He looked at his right hand – clean, unmarked, _unpunished._

He gripped the glass tight on his left – and repeatedly stab his right hand. Again, and again, until he could no longer feel it. The pain did not register in his head. Nor does the sight of his bleeding hand. He did not stop. Again – again – again. He moved like a machine programmed to do only one thing. He did not stop. He _cannot_ stop –

A hand gripped his right hand, and Bruce stopped – his eyes remained glazy as he stare at the blood, _the mess_ that was once his left hand.

“Stop, dad, _please”_ a soft voice whisper, but Bruce was too far gone in his head to even recognize who it is.

The hand was gentle as he took the glass off Bruce’s.

Bruce tried to hold into the shard, he’s not done yet, it didn’t feel _enough,_ but the hand was too _soft,_ too gentle in caressing his bloodied hand that he let it. Bruce closed his eyes, and let the mysterious hand take away his redemption.

He heard the glass clatter as it was thrown in the trash. Then a door opened – probably in the bathroom, before the hand was back. It was opening his palm and dabbing it with an alcohol. Bruce winced, it brought awareness back to him and he finally look up.

He saw his third son, Tim, calmly cleaning his wounds.

Bruce was too lost in his thoughts to speak. What would he even say? Should he apologize? Should he explain himself? But how could he say that he had been hurting himself? How could he explain to his son that it _was needed to be done?_ Would Tim even understand?

What if he hates him for it? What would Bruce do then? What would he _feel_?

“It’s okay,” Tim said, his voice devoid of anything that Bruce could read. “I won’t tell them,” he added, as if it was an assurance.

Bruce merely remained silent. His mind unable to follow the events, unable to interpret it properly.

Tim continued to dress his wound. He looked at the bedsheet painted with nothing but red, then to his father. Unmistakable sadness was evidently reflected in his eyes. Bruce could see it, knew that Tim openly allowed him to.

He sighed, “here let me help you up,” he wrapped his arms around Bruce and tugged.

Bruce let him, like a doll waiting for his master to control him – he could do nothing else.

Tim took his arms and led him to the bathroom. He helped him remove his clothes, as if Bruce is a disabled, helpless man, but Bruce was _too lost_ , his mind too empty to care, to feel pathetic about himself. He let his son clean him, shower him, he let him dress him to another pair of clothes, and guide him back to the room. He left him to a seat by the wall, then proceeded to replace the bedsheet, clean the remains of the shattered glass and replace him with a new pillowcase.

He turned to his father and gave him a soft smile. He walked towards him and pull him by his arms, his movements as gentle as the morning breeze. It made Bruce feel at ease, made me feel like a fallen leaf breezing through the morning air. He let him guide him, take him back to bed, and tug him to the bed.

He took his father’s injured hand on his lap and gently caress it. “It’ll be alright, dad,” he said and gave him another soft smile.

Bruce could merely stare at him, unable to say anything.

“We don’t...” he paused, lost for words. He sighed, as if finally deciding on something, “we’re not mad, we don’t hate you or anything. We’re just…Dick, you know him,” he gave a soft laugh, “he worries too much,” as if reminding his father something important, “and Jason too. We were all worried about you dad, especially – after we found you.” He looked away for a minute or two, “It’s okay to ask for help, dad. You don’t have to pretend,” his eyes reflected the grief of a past mistake, a past miscalculation, “we’ll be here dad.” He leaned and gave his dad a hug. But Bruce was too stunned to return it. “We’ll always be here for you,” he whispered by his father’s ears, hoping that it’ll reach his heart.

“We’ll always be here, for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did it hit hard? ;)


	22. Someone Please Tell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Damian tries to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some Damian feels :)

Damian gently opened his father’s door and peek inside. The room was quiet, devoid of any sound except his father’s soft snore. It made him smile.

He slowly opened the door a bit larger and, using all his training with the League and as a robin, sneaked inside. His steps were almost nonexistent as he near his father’s side. He noticed his father’s left hand was bandaged and the sheets were replaced.

He also remembered Dick’s sullen face as he passed by him in the Kitchen. He refused to tell what happened though, why he was covered in milk for instance.

Everything was changing so fast. Jason was again away from the Manor – he refuses to come back, not even taking Alfred’s call. They knew that he was safe, though, as Tim and Oracle were both tracking him down, and taking note of all the gangs and criminals – _there were a lot_ – that he interacted with. Crime in Gotham City had never been that low, criminals are actually afraid of going out at night (or midday) in fear of running into the bloodthirsty Red Hood.

It made Damian smile. Of course, they should fear his brother – his brother _is_ strong, he thought feeling proud. Urgh, Dick’s sappiness is rubbing on all of them.

He stood beside his father and looked at him. “A mistake,” he found himself whispering. He grasped his father’s injured hand. “It was only a mistake, isn’t it?” His father wasn’t that weak, his father would _never_ run away from anything. His father was _The Batman_ – a vigilante hero who faced Death himself, who stare at its eyes and refuses to back down. There’s no way in heaven nor hell that his father would do such a _cowardly_ act. His father _is_ a strong man. He’s not a weakling like Grayson who cries easily, a whump like Drake, nor an uncontrollable wild card like Todd. His father is _everything_ they wished to be.

He’s not weak, he’s not a runner, he faced everything head on. It was only a mistake, a _misunderstanding._ They’ll see. Father was just tired, perhaps the old age getting to him. But he wasn’t weak. They’ll see, his father would wake up and make everything alright again.

He gently lifted himself by his father’s bed and lay above his father’s covers. He’ll only watch him, ten minutes top, he just wanted to make sure that his father is alright, that he isn’t hurting anymore. It’ll be okay, he’ll only be here for ten minutes.

His father stirred. Damian’s eyes snapped open. He was ready to bolt out – faster than his father could blink, when he was captured in a tight embrace.

_Bruce was left alone the night of his parents’ death. He was taken by Alfred back to the Manor, eyes still wide and shock of the night’s event, he was silent as the night in their ride back. Alfred, thankfully, never bothered to force him to speak – unlike the policemen who kept on pestering a child who just lost its parents, what do you know? Have you seen the killer? What happened? Bruce’s mouth remained shut, his brain was in an endless loop of gunshot and unmoving body._

_The moment Alfred opened the door, Bruce ran past him and towards his parents’ room, naively hoping that when he opened the door, he would be welcomed to the sight of his parents sleeping late with his mother caught in his father’s embrace._

_Yet, reality is the nightmare he had never thought of._

_When Bruce opened the door, he was greeted with nothing but an empty bed, a room devoid of any presence, a bed that was filled with nothing but air. No sight greeted him, no voice, no words except the words that echoes in his head._

_Suddenly, Bruce could almost hear the deafening sound of a gun unloading a bullet._

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

_Bruce ran towards the bed and lay there, his eyes empty as he stared blankly ahead. What will he do now? What will his life be? He had always rely on his parents, the thought of living a life without them by his side, how can an eight years old imagine that life?_

_Without knowing, tears started to fall from his eyes. Bruce lay unblinking, as tears wet his parents’ bed._

Damian flinched as he felt burning tears cascade down his father’s cheeks, dripping down to his shoulders. His father had buried his head on his small shoulder as he had hugged his son tight, too much so, as if he was afraid that letting go may cause the end of his world.

_Bruce hugged his mother’s pillow, swallowing the scent that was left behind as if it was oxygen, something he couldn’t live without, a desperate plea for survival. It was a specific fragrance from the perfume that his father had given his mother._

_And Bruce wanted to memorize it, to carve it permanently in his mind. A reminder that was left behind by his parents, Bruce tried to imagine, to hope that perhaps this life is only a bad dream, something that he could wake up from. Bruce closed his eyes tightly and prayed._

_Lord, please let it be a bad dream. Please, please….let it be a dream._

_But when Bruce opened his eyes, it was to the same room, to the same empty room._

_Bruce hugged the pillow tighter. His tears doubled as he felt as if his heart is being crushed._

_His desire for a continuous existence died that night when his parents were murdered in front of his eyes._

_Everything is worst now, for Bruce. The night refuses to calm him down. The bed refuses to give him the same comfort that it does before. The silence refuses to give him safety._

_It scares him. Because in silence, he could hear his thoughts._

_And his thoughts are sharper than a knife. They twist in his chest, guts him alive. They make him want to throw himself in an empty coffin and bury himself in the ground. Because that is where he truly belongs, in death._

_They took away his desire for breath. They took away air from his lungs, stabs his heart with needles until he could barely breathe. And wouldn’t that be lovely? A sight to see?_

_Wouldn’t that make everything alright?_

_Just end it Bruce, just make it stop._

_Bruce hugged the pillow tighter, burying his face on his mother’s scent. A desperate attempt to hide himself from the horrors of the reality._

_Because his parents are gone now. And they aren’t coming back._

_Bruce must learn how to eat alone in a huge table, must learn how to go to the park without company, go to the theaters without his parents embracing him in a cold night – he must learn to exist by himself._

_Please, someone, wake him up from this reality._

Damian could do nothing but embrace his father back, arms circling him as tears continue to fall. He does not understand what is happening, what he should be doing. 

His father is crying, and he doesn’t know why. His life in the League did not prepare him for this. He was always told that emotions make human, human. And humanity is synonymous with weakness. And weakness with humility. 

Pride is what defines Damian as a person, as a brother, as a son. Pride is what runs in his veins, the oxygen that he breathes, the blood that pumps his heart. Yet, how does you deal when the answer lies beyond what you are taught? 

His father is crying, and he does not know what to do, what to think. Should he get Grayson? But his eldest didn't also seem right after he talked with father – what had happened?

There are so many questions running in his head it's making it hurt. He needs to know. He needs to understand. 

As his father's tears shuddered to a halt, Damian's mind settled. Yes, there may have been a thousand questions that needs answering, but for now, his father needs him. He hugged him tighter, arms encircling his father's wide shoulders. He let his father's head settle on his shoulder, and patted his back, in the same soft rhythm that he remembered his father doing when Damian was injured, and Bruce stayed with him till he was healed. 

His father needs him, so Damian will be here for him. And there's _nothing_ in the goddamn world that could pull Damian away from his father's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you didn't cringe at the 'BAM' part. i honestly don't know what to use for a gun shot. 
> 
> next is jason feels, so prepare for tissues. (and send me some cause i have none)


	23. Midnight Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The son who found his father dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the tissues guys, but...
> 
> :'(

Since he was already at the Manor, Jason decided to do another prank to his father. Perhaps it might irk him, and subsequently cheer him up? He could tease his dad about it, or whatever. But if Jason is being honest with himself, he just wanted to check on his dad. He was worried, okay? His father uttered his name while panicking, then got himself shot by some nameless criminal, and –

He noticed that the room is oddly quiet. He glanced at the bed and noticed that it was empty. He knew that his father couldn’t possibly be at the Batcave because he had been there. He went to the Batcave earlier to check up on his younger brother, Tim, because he knew that Tim would most likely immerse himself in programming or tinkering of the Batcomputer to forget to take a rest again, it’s something he does when he was worried, Jason understands. Thus, he decided to tease him and subtly force him to go to bed. It ended up with Jason threatening to call Official Mother Hen Dick Grayson to make him move his smart ass to bed. (Admittedly Jason’s pride was a bit tainted because his brothers were more afraid of Dick than him, Dick is a softie, he isn’t….right?)

Jason heard water softly dripping from a vantage point. It echoes like a sonar in a submarine, calling attention, seeking for anyone’s eyes to gaze on it, pointing, a quiet reminder that something isn’t right – he couldn’t help but to walk towards it, and my, it was like walking to something ominous and dangerous. The shadow casted by the slightly ajar door looked daunting in his eyes. It was like walking towards a horror castle in the park, and Jason was replaced by a twelve-year-old girl who is afraid of anything that she doesn’t know. Yet, there seems to be an invisible force that is pulling Jason’s body, a murmur by his ears, a command to see what is hidden beyond that room.

He peeked at the small sight that the door allows, and my god, was it a sight to see. There were scattered pills on the bathroom floor, an empty bottle not far, Jason walked faster – his heart hammering rapidly on his chest, constricting his oxygen, one more step, and he forgotten how to breathe.

There, a cold bath was colored with pale red. He moved without thinking, arms outstretched, hands seeking for something to grasp –

And he felt a body –

And he pulled, his father’s body weighting like feather in his arms. He laid him beside the tub, suddenly he felt as if he’s a ten-year-old child, begging his mother to wake up, _wake up –_

But he isn’t. He isn’t waking up.

Tears spilled on his eyes without him knowing, he could feel his heart wanting to get out, his mind filled with memories, seeing his father’s body slumped on the wall with a gunshot on his stomach, he laid unmoving, Jason isn’t sure if he is even breathing, a few meters away them was a girl sobbing because of her mother but the sound fade in his ears, all he could see, all he could hear, is his mind screaming at his head that he’s too late, too late to save his father, too late to save his mother – and he’s alone, he’s alone now, no parents, no adoptive parents, no brothers to take care for – and why is he even breathing –

He screamed. And screamed. And screamed until he could feel his voice scratching against his chords. Because that is all he could do – he could do nothing but scream, a plea to the whatever gods that is up there and enjoying the tragedy that is his life, to please, _fucking_ please, let it all be a nightmare – let him wake up, let his father _live,_ because he is all that he got – only him, please _gods,_ don’t let him slip from his hands –

Dick came as soon as he heard his brother’s anguished screams, it’s nothing like he had heard before, it was as if his brother was living his nightmares. And before Dick could even think about it, his feet were already moving.

Not far from him was Alfred, Tim and Damian.

What greeted them was something truly horrifying, suddenly Jason’s screams make sense. Alfred was the first to move and pulled Bruce’s body from Jason’s hands. Tim was quick to be by his brother’s side and soothe him as he began to frantically claw away Alfred’s hands, not seeing him as their adoptive grandfather figure, but an enemy – perhaps even Death itself – taking its hands on their father.

Jason’s sobs, which soon followed, was what triggered Dick back to the living. He quietly went by his father’s side and helped Alfred with performing a CPR. Every pump on his father’s body and him not responding was like a stab to Dick’s heart. Why isn’t his father spilling all the water within him – why isn’t he breathing – are they too late? – why did his father – what compelled him to even think of doing it – _what the fuck is happening –_

They almost lost him not three days ago…

They were fine just a few hours ago, they trained, they _laughed,_ they lay beside each other, and spent the hours like a family enjoying their leisure time –

_What the fuck happened –_

At the corner of his eyes he could see Damian pulling Tim into a hug with Jason. At least Jason seemed to be calming down from being enveloped by his brothers.

Finally, Bruce spluttered and coughed droplets of water over the bathroom floor. Dick felt like he could breathe again. He could see Bruce blinking, trying to grasp energy to stay awake, yet failing as his eyes closed. But he was breathing, _he was breathing._

Jason gasped as he heard their father coughing. He pushed his brothers aside and clawed his way towards their father. He laid his head on his father’s chest and let the sound of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, to lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More jason angst next chapter :(


	24. The Unwanted Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason can't go back to the Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised....the angst :)

Jason cannot go back to the Manor.

Every time he thought of being there, the memories of his father drowning _himself_ resurfaces. He tried to bury the feeling of hurt, of helplessness, of not being _enough_ (because surely his father _would not_ have done it if he thought that his son is worth living despite the pain, Bruce lived beyond his parents’ death, after all, surely that meant something, but perhaps Jason _doesn’t_ , that’s why his father was too easily convinced to escape –), but he couldn’t. With every second that pass, the same thought kept on repeating on his head – it was too _noisy,_ filled with _ridiculous_ thoughts that he does not even want to repeat.

Thus, like a true Wayne and a member of the Batfamily, Jason solved his problems with good old fighting crimes. He had learnt to love, even desperately seek, the adrenaline that his body produces while engaging in a fight. The rush of joy, of an accomplishment, of playing _the hero_ (saving Gotham from these heinous monsters) were somewhat enough to bury it, _for a while,_ until he could find another criminal to beat up. Another criminal to punish, a murderer to slit the throat, a robber that he could broke their hands, _anyone_ that would engage him in a fight.

Perhaps if he engaged in a fight repeatedly, his body would grow too numb to even be reminded to what happened. It’ll pass, like his mother’s death, like his own pain after being beaten to death, like all the others’, it’ll pass –

Jason went to his empty apartment, exhausted and drained. He pushed himself to the limits, and battled a whole gang, right after the other, until all he could hear is the faint echo of gunshot, and all he could smell is gun powder.

As he lay by his bed, arms outstretch, faintly the memory of that night, began to slither in his eyes – like smoke crawling in a clean room.

He could see his younger self, afraid and unsure, as he tried to peek from the door. _Is his mother still awake? Will she be mad that he stayed a bit late playing outside?_ He took a tentative step, then another, and another as he walked closely to the living room. There he saw his mother, sleeping. Empty bottles laid on the floor, some of liquor, some of her medicines. They were scattered around her.

His mother was quiet, _too quiet._ Something gave him courage to go near his mother, and risk getting scolded, risk being told how _he ruined his mother’s life_ – it’ll all be worth it, young Jason thinks. Something nags at the back of his head, and he had to _learn_ something. He tapped his mother, _“Mom?”_

But she isn’t responding. It looked like she didn’t move at all.

_He was too naïve, too innocent._

He tried waking her again. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. He sat beside her and rest his head on the empty space by his mother’s side. He took her hand on his and waited…..and waited….

The police came the next morning and took her away.

Leaving her only son, alone. Unwanted. Unloved.

_His father left them, and it was his fault. How did he know? Because his mother never fails to remind him. Every day he’ll tell him how useless he is, how he shouldn’t even be born because if he didn’t exist then his father wouldn’t have left them. But life is cruel, and he exists, so his mother was all alone –_

And so, she left him too.

* * *

The phone rang. Jason blinked his eyes and took his phone from his pocket. It was Dick. He answered the phone, “Are you alright?” Dick’s soft voice echoed in Jason’s ears.

Jason remained quiet, unable to utter a word. The image of him laying beside his mother kept on flashing before his eyes, like an endless loop that does not want to end. Dick, ever the patient man, waited. Jason could hear his uneven breathing by his ears.

He decided to answer, maybe it’ll push Dick to hang up, he whispered, “Yes.”

But it didn’t stop Dick. “Are you going back?”

“Back where?” he didn’t know if he had intended to add sarcasm on his question, but it did anyway.

“Back home,” Dick answered.

Jason didn’t respond. Should he tell Dick how he could barely step foot in front of the Manor, barely even _think_ of going back, without the memories of his father’s suicide attempt assaulting his mind? Instead, he chose to answer with, “Is dad awake?” Because despite what _the bastard_ has done, (because surely Bruce would _know_ how his mother died – how could he _even think_ of subjecting his son _again_ on that) he still cares about his father.

“Yes,” Jason could sense the hesitation in Dick’s voice, and it made his heart skip a beat, fear crept up on him, like a snake coiling around his neck, “He…” a pause, “I need you here, little brother. Dad…Dad is not okay.”

Jason couldn’t help but scoff. “Yeah, I _know._ I’m the one who found him, right?”

“He’s…he’s not alright,” Dick’s voice breaks and Jason could hear him sobbing over the phone. “Dad’s not okay and I don’t know what to do,” he admitted as he openly cried over the line. Jason could never bear to see his brothers cry, hear their eldest suffering like this.

Finally, Dick stopped crying, but he was still sniffling.

Jason sighed. Because what else could he do? His brother needed him; he can’t leave him _alone,_ not now, not _ever._ (Not like what his mother had done – what his father would have done). “I’ll be there.”

He could hear Dick nodding. “Thank you,” his voice somewhat better.

Jason smiled. “Just…give me ten minutes.” He could barely lift his legs without wincing.

It made Dick cough a laugh. “Yeah, okay,” he said, as if he just _knew_ what Jason had been up to.

And if he had, Jason wouldn’t even be surprised.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.


	25. Soldier Keep On Marching On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason comes home to Dick's tears, Tim's startling revelation, and Damian's questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Tim feels ahead :)

Dick and Tim sat on opposite side of the huge middle sofa in the living room. Dick had his head on his hands, crying. His faint sniffled and muffled cries can be heard in between his hands. It was actually the only background noise in the whole manor. 

Meanwhile, Tim had his hands wrapped on a cup of coffee, with more cream than sugar, but still freshly brewed. He was staring blankly ahead. He had a blanket wrapped over his shoulders.

Damian sat by the floor, with Titus's head on his lap. He was stroking his dog’s head softly and absentmindedly, mind still in deep thought.

Suddenly, sound of motorcycle is heard. Pretty soon, someone opened the door and Jason appeared. 

They remained mute as they exchanged looks. Jason's eyes were troubled, and he wanted to ask his brothers, but he remained quiet. 

Dick was the last to look up, his eyes were blood red. Jason winced upon seeing him. He placed his keys on his pocket and walked towards Dick and Tim. He sat between them. 

"What happened?" Jason asked Dick. 

Dick wiped his tears. "Father....he’s upset."

Tim took a sip of his creamer with coffee.

Jason remained quiet, but he nodded, indicating a push to continue. 

Dick sniffled his cry. "We fought, he said he was being treated like a child."

"Why did he think that?" Tim asked, they haven’t had the time to talk about it.

"He asked for his medicines. For the bullet wound and his sleeping pills," Dick answered.

Jason gripped his hands tighter. He was deafened by the beating of his chest. He wanted to yell, to open his father's door and shake him until sensibility forced it's way back to his brain. Him? Medicine? No fucking way ever again. Instead, not wanting to add to his brother's misery, he asked softly, "what did you do?"

"Of course I didn't give him that. I must have said something else because the next thing I know I'm drenched in milk." It made all of them pause. 

"Father....threw you milk?" Damian couldn't believe what he was hearing. That is unbecoming of his father, never in a million years would his father be as rude and childish as throw a cup of steaming, hot, milk to one of his sons. He treasures them so much, he told them himself, has he been lying? Did his father not love them as much as he told him?

Dick nodded, his shoulders began to rattle as he feel tears forming. "It was...quiet hot. I shouldn't have boiled it, yeah?" He snickered, as if it was all a big joke. 

Jason can't help but mutter, "that fucking bastard". Father or not, he has not right to disrespect his eldest like that, especially someone who had lived his life looking up at Bruce, at Batman, with nothing but respect and admiration. 

"He's just upset," Dick reasoned. "About what happened, no doubt."

Tim remained quiet, he wanted to say something more but found himself unable to. 

"Well still that's no excuse. He should've known better," Jason said, left anger still boiling within him. He knew that it was his feelings of upset that is clouding his head with hatred, but when blood boils near your ears, there's little that you can do. 

"Well, something's not right," Damian said, pointing out the obvious. "Father's not right, and I'm all out of explanation."

"Did you had one to begin with?" Jason's smugness is a part of him that can't be removed, thus his question felt more like sarcasm and tease rather than actual worried question, which it is. 

"Well..." Damian paused, trying to think of better words. "Perhaps he's upset about Christmas?" 

Jason snorted. 

Damian rolled his eyes. "At least I'm trying." 

"It could be..." Dick was a natural born leader, someone who considers all the possibilities, thus he did not let as simple as Damian's reasoning pass. Also, Damian is a child, despite being raised almost exclusively by the League, he is still a ten years old, and his innocence is evident. He may not be as repulsed to violence as children his age, but when it comes to people's emotions, that which were deemed as inappropriate by those who raised him, of course he would latch on to the simplest explanation. However, "but I don't think it's just that--"

"Its really not," Tim said, his eyes glued on the swirling of cream on his coffee. His gaze transfixed on how the cream mixes with the dark and consuming bitterness of the coffee, how it neutralizes the taste, how it transforms its bitterness to sweetness, and how sugar helps him calm down. Might it also be the reason? Is his father also neutralizing his emotions by - their eyes were fixed on him, he could feel their intense gaze despite not lifting his head to actually see it. They were desperate for an answer and Tim isn't sure if he could give them one. 

He promised his father, didn't he? That he would tell the others what had happened, that he wouldn't tell Dick and his brothers, the simple lapse of judgment that his father did – isn’t that what it all is? A simple lapse of judgment? Surely his father didn't mean to stab himself? Didn't mean to take a significant amount of medication that is lethal? Didn't mean to close his eyes, dip himself in the water, and not pull himself up? Didn't mean to hold his breath? Didn't mean to come close to dying? Didn't mean to actually forget that he had a family that would miss him? 

Surely, he didn't mean to do all of that? Surely, he loved them enough not to run --

But isn't that what they always say? Was it just as an excuse? Saying that he loved them but is actually just itching to jump on something that could pull him away from them - little rascals, heap of responsibilities. Do they mean nothing to him? What have they done to anger him? What have they done to push him away? To give their father an assumption that no one would miss him? That no one loves him? 

But they had been alright.

Haven't they?

Those times before his father were shot, the playful battle, the trip at the mall - those were the times when they are most familial with each other. Times when they all felt relaxed, when the weight of the world isn't on their backs, when they can become just a simple family - a father and his sons, and not the Batman and Robins. 

He thought...he had thought that it was okay, that they had been okay...

But then his father got shot. And it seemed to change everything. Drastically turning up the tides. 

But they had been okay, haven't they? They engaged in a mocking battle. It was fun, it was exhausting (and a little bit humiliating considering how easily his father defeated him), it was a learning experience, it was enjoyable, it was lovely, _it made him feel like a part of a family goddamnit!_

Then why the fuck did his father try to commit –

He swallowed. He couldn't even say it. Couldn't admit to himself that his father had gone too low to even consider it, yet alone do it.

But it had been a mistake. Wasn't it? That's what he has told Damian, told him, told Dick. Or was it just a lie? A reassurance for them? What other more lies did his father told them? Have those times when he made them feel like his true sons, were all just a pretense? A play pretend? A sick joke, like _hey! You thought you’re part of the family? Well, guess what?!_

What is fucking happening?! 

He unconsciously gripped the cup tighter. He swallowed, praying, and gaining all the courage that he had left. He looked at his brothers, patiently waiting for his words. "I don't think it's just that..." his gaze was pulled back to the swirling cream. 

"He..." Tim closed his eyes, visioning the sight of blood on his father's bed, his father's blank stare, his silent plea. Tim whispered a soft apology. His father may not like it, but he isn't telling them anything. How can they solve something that they do not know? They couldn't guess forever, not when their father is at risk. "He stabbed himself." 

A collective grasp. 

"He did _what_?!" Anger bubbled once more on Jason's throat. Dick placed a hand on his arm, to stop him, to calm him.

Tim shouldered on. "I saw him, stabbing his hand with the glass." He looked at Dick, "from the milk." Tim looked down at this coffee, seeing a faint glimmer of red. He could feel the corner of his eyes wetting. He blinked the tears away. "I stopped him, of course. Tried to clean him up." His voice crack at the end, "I wanted to ask, but he looked...so lost." A silent plea to his brothers, "I don't know what to do," echoing their same sentiments.

Tim suddenly saw droplets bouncing off the coffee's surface. Shocked, it didn't even register to him that it might be his, because what else is he upset about? His brothers were here by his side, Jason is finally home, he wasn't fighting with Damian, and Dick is here, Bruce is here, Alfred is here, so why else would tears stream down his face --

Because everything's not right. Something is wrong. And they have no clue how to fix it. It's not a case that they could easily solve, the enemy isn't a criminal that they could fight and throw into jail. It's not something that they could look into and be detached from, no. The problem lay inside their circle, their family - the person that they've looked up to, who ought to protect them from harm, physical or otherwise, is falling apart.

_Who could save the savior?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comfort Era is coming! <3 
> 
> if you have any suggestions, I'm all ears.


	26. Broken Toy Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The savior shed his skin. The truth is painful to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii congrats for getting this far <3 more pain before the actual comfort :)

"We do what I've always done," Alfred's firm voice echoed from the dining room, he stood in front of the partition, eyes hard. He met all of their gazes, a strong yet gentle glint, signaling a _hope_ that they are all been waiting for. 

Tim felt Jason's arm wrap him, but his brother's eyes were on Alfred. Tim think that him providing comfort was an unconscious decision. It made him soft and mushy inside ( _Damnit Dick, stop rubbing your emotions on us humans_ ). 

Damian stood up and squeezed himself beside Tim. Tim looked at him and Damian raised an eyebrow in challenge. They both chose to shut their mouth. 

"What do you mean?" Dick asked, moving so that Damian could properly stick his butt in. 

Alfred hid his smile as he walked and sat on the sofa on the left of the one with the batboys. His smile however grew dim as the painful memories resurfaced on his mind. "I'm afraid that this situation, isn't an isolated one." 

A collective gasped simultaneously echoed over the boys. None of them couldn't speak, it was as if they are all barely hanging on a thread. 

"Bruce had suffered such difficulty, for almost all of his life. We believe that it may have been triggered by his parents' death," Alfred said. 

_You mean father has been suffering since he was_ eight _?_ Dick thought. 

"And the night before Christmas, may have triggered this fall as well," Alfred continued. 

"He had –" Jason's voice break as he still try to wrap his head around the idea that his father had did just that. He doesn't want to name, doesn't want to call it, _doesn't want to accept it_. 

Alfred knew, however, what he meant. He nodded, an almost permanent frown on his face. "To be honest," he took a deep breath, "this has been...the third incident."

A pause.

"Third?!" Jason all but yell. He would have actually screamed the question, with how surprise he is, but he didn't because his father is resting upstairs. But seriously, THIRD?! _What the fuck goes in his father's head?!_ Once is already maddening but to imagine three times? God forbid, Jason could feel his head hurting, and his chest numbing. A glance to his brothers told him that their sentiments were the same. 

Alfred nodded. "The first happened a few months after his parents' death," that first time was the most painful to witness for Alfred. An eight-year-old child - _eight_! - shouldn't have thought of ending his life, let alone actually _attempt_ to do it. Alfred's heart broke into pieces when Bruce's dull, almost soulless eyes opened. He could see the pain ( _of still being alive? Of still breathing after his attempt?_ ) reflected clearly on his eyes. It haunted him, for so long it did. “It was...” (unimaginable? Painful? Haunting? Is there an appropriate word to describe what he had felt? It was a mixture of every emotion of grief available for mankind, and he does not believe that there’s already a word made to describe what he had gone through), he looked at his hands and settled into something simplistic and easily comprehensible, “it was painful to witness. The recovery would be just as unimaginable,” he looked up, his eyes startlingly determined, a feeling that he had long mastered, _they could push through, he - they - could do it,_ “but we managed. I was able to coax him into getting therapy and succeeding medicines.” 

The boys remained silent, head wrapping around the idea, the thought of their father _doing_ something like that for such a young age was undeniably inconsiderable - they had gone through their own share of pain, but thankfully it hadn’t come to _that._ And to think that the weight of that had been in his back for basically all of his life? Is that the reason why he made himself Batman? But haven’t they told him that it was because of a need to protect Gotham? Was it also a need to protect himself? An eight-year old child who lost his parents, who suddenly found himself alone in a cruel, unforgiving world, _did he put on a cowl as a shield_? 

“And the second time?” Tim asked. 

Alfred closed his eyes, willing a moment to calm himself up. “As a young boy, it was during the time of his travels abroad.”

“Oh, his trainings?” Damian asked, having heard the tale before. 

“Yes, his trainings. He stepped out of the manor as a young rebellious,” Alfred looked at Jason, a soft reminiscing smile on his lips, “...boy, and came back a young man,” he said looking back at each of Bruce’s sons. They returned his smile. 

After a while though, his frown came back. “Something must have happened in between, however, as I suddenly got contacted by own of his friends. I asked him, of course, and so of his friend. But I received no answer. Only Bruce knew what happened.” He gave a sad chuckle. “And you know how stubborn the master is.”

“Of course, each loss of his sons was also a hard blow,” he said, looking grimly. 

Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian looked taken aback, as if they couldn’t believe that Bruce cared for them deeply to be a reason for the horrors to come back. _Ridiculous_ , thought Alfred. _Of course, he’ll mourn._

“First of Master Dick’s. His first lost,” Dick looked like he’s close to openly sobbing again. “He had come to the conclusion that the lost may have been a punishment for him, for thinking that he _could_ have a family. He was haunted by what he had done, the way he had pushed you out of fear. Fortunately, he was not able to dwell for so long, as Master Jason had arrived.”

He gave a soft smile to Jason. “It was a blessing; it gave Bruce something to think about rather than the empty place that Master Dick had left.” Dick sobbed. “He cared for you too much, Master Dick, that Jason may have been a lovely, playful, sunshine,” Jason blushed, “but he had not forgotten about you.”

“You may have thought that each of you was meant as a _replacement,”_ Alfred gave a stern look back at Jason, which Jason replied with a groan and his head hiding behind his hand, “but that is simply not true. You are _all_ his sons,” he said, eyeing them one by one, “he cares for you all _equally._ He just has a tendency to...easily adopt?” still surprised by the conclusion, as if it was not an open-secret. It made all of the sons’ chuckle, good-heartedly. “The Waynes merely have the tendency to care very deeply,” he said, and he knew that each had realized how that affected their own morality - the need to _protect?_ Yes, they understood that very well. 

“Master Jason’s lost was perhaps the _closeness_ he had gone, and if it weren’t for Master Tim, I am afraid he wouldn’t have lasted that long,” Alfred said, recounting what had happened. 

Jason suddenly felt thankful for Tim. He had long hated his brother for suddenly replacing him, for his father to easily push him aside as if he hadn’t been _Robin,_ hadn’t been _his son,_ but now he understood. That it isn’t a matter of apathy, rather a matter of _need_. His father _needed_ to take care of someone, needed another person to save him - and thankfully, Tim had been there. He unconsciously ruffled his brother’s hair - which Tim and he knew were his own way of saying a soft thanks. 

_Thanks for being there when I couldn’t._

“Father had been there for us,” Damian, surprisingly, was the first to speak. He looked at Dick, who is barely suppressing his tears, Jason whose face is a mixture of emotions, Tim whose emotions resembled primarily of pride (but Damian refused to call it as such), then at Alfred, whose eyes are filled with endless encouragement. “I think it’s time for us to be there for him.”

_It is time to save the savior._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii so this is the last chapter I had drafted. I have already planned the ending, but is currently having a hard time connecting this to the epilogue without putting a time card hehe. So expect a bit slower on the update. University just started T-T


	27. Still Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life may be cruel, but it isn’t unforgiving. Bruce’s sons try to figure out how to help their father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient. <3 here's some comfort...and angst at the end :( poor alfred

The silence was thick after the revelation that Alfred presented. He knew that his Master’s sons need time to process what they have heard. He had needed that time, yet life was cruel, and his master does not have the luxury to be patient, Alfred does not have the luxury of time. Bruce needed him, and he needed a father _fast._ He needed someone to guide him, to take care of him, to remind him that _life may be cruel, but it isn’t unforgiving._

And Alfred was the only one here. Only one that understood, well _tried to,_ understand his master’s pain.

But now, he wasn’t anymore. Now, Bruce had his _sons_ to be there for him.

A proof that life _forgives._

Without disrupting the silence, or the boys’ contemplation, Alfred stood up to prepare them some snacks, perhaps some cookies, if there is still some left. But he was, as always, a paranoid at heart, and he fears that his master’s sons may misunderstood the gravity of the situation. Thus, he left, but not out of earshot.

“What…” Damian’s voice was soft, almost told in a whisper. Alfred could feel his fear – fear of what, he isn’t sure. But Damian’s next words answered it, “What does it mean? When Alfred said that father is not well?”

Alfred had no doubt that they understood Damian’s confusion. Damian was left in the hands of people who taught him that emotions are _burdens_ – a weakness that needs to be erased, as it was a sign of defeat.

“The body gets sick, does it not?” Tim was the first to answer, surprising Alfred, as he thought that Dick would the first. “The mind does too.”

“You mean, like a fever?” Damian asked.

“Yeah, like that.” Tim’s voice was laced with uncertainty.

“Father will heal then,” Damian said. “You take medicine to cure fever, will medicine work too?” his age was unconsciously shown, an innocence that they all thought was long forgotten.

“Perhaps. But it won’t be easy,” this time it was Jason who answered. “Mind is a complicated matter, little brother,” there was a hint of fondness in his voice.

“And Alfred said Bruce did so once, after the—” a pause, Tim was still afraid to say it, as if not saying it would make it less true, “—but perhaps we could try again?”

“Yeah, but—” Alfred could vividly imagine Jason clenching his fist, Jason was the easiest to read at the four of them, for try as he might hide behind the red masks he loved to wear, he was still the same emotional child that Alfred took care of long ago, the same child who look at the world with wonder, and look at his father with adoration, “—we found him, with those, haven’t we? I don’t—” he sighed, heavy, as if he was carrying a large baggage at his back and only breathing through his nose would lessen the burden, “—I don’t really trust him,” another pause, “I don’t trust him to do any shit again.”

Alfred tucked silently, mind unable to stop from reprimanding him for cursing in front of his younger brother.

“We could ask a doctor?” Damian interjected. Alfred could just imagine the four of them looking at their youngest, unable to believe that he uttered something so profoundly sensible answer. “I mean, when we get sick, we go to the doctor right? Why must this be any different?”

Dick hummed. “You know when I was Robin, I thought Alfred was a doctor.”

Alfred spluttered with the change of the subject.

“I thought so too,” Jason added.

“Wait, was he not?” Damian asked, obviously a little bit bothered.

“No, he doesn’t have any on his curriculum vitae,” Tim answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What the hell are you doing in the batcomp to know that detail?” Jason’s big brother voice appeared.

Tim spluttered, “Stuffs!”

“Are you looking at porn Drake?” Damian asked.

“DAMIAN!” Dick screamed, scandalized.

Damian shrugged, “Todd taught them to me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about brat?!” Jason’s panicked voice followed. “I ain’t teaching you shit!”

“Guys, we will resolve this later,” Dick said. “I think Damian’s idea is good, but who would we go to?”

“Dr. Thompkins?” Jason suggested.

“Hmm, good choice.” Dick said.

“I could search for his therapist?” Tim also suggested. “Haven’t Alfred said that Dad had one before? Perhaps it’s best to consult that person too.”

Alfred could just imagine them nodding their head in agreement.

“But what would we do, now?” Damian asked. “We could not just leave Father.”

“Of course we ain’t going to leave him, not when he’s like _this,”_ Jason said.

“Okay, how about Jason and I would go to the therapist and Tim could see Dr. Leslie?” Dick said.

“Where would I be?” Damian asked.

“You’ll stay here with Dad, make sure he eats, and stuff,” Dick said, remembering the early incident. “Out of all of us, you’re the least he’ll get accidentally mad to.”

“Ah,” Damian said, seemingly understanding the early incident of milk and Dick.

“Just…make sure that you don’t overwhelm him,” Dick added. “Just act normal, I guess? His emotions are a bit unstable right now, as what Alfred had said, perhaps it’s better if you treat him normally?”

“What do you mean by normally?” Damian asked, he doesn’t want to get things wrong, especially while his father is sick.

“Just…don’t mention heavy stuff? Like the incident, or something,” Tim answered for Dick.

“And if he asked where we were, just say we got back to the apartments to get something and we’ll be back soon,” Jason said.

“Don’t forget the _soon_ part, lil’ wing. We don’t want Dad to think that we left him,” Dick said.

“Of course you wouldn’t leave him, you care about Father,” Damian said.

“Yeah, but,” Dick’s voice was mixed with sadness, and there’s tears glistening in the corner of his eyes, his voice crack for a second, “he might not understand it, might not believe it.”

“Ah,” Damian again understood. _Damn fever._

Alfred took his time to bring them cookies. “But before you go on, please do get some rest.” He said, giving each a glass of milk and placing a plate of cookies on the table. “Especially you, Master Dick,” Alfred said, giving the eldest a pat on his shoulder. “You had enough today.”

Dick nodded and gave the butler a small smile. “I will, thank you Alfred.”

As usual, it took Jason two glasses before going to bed. Dick was next, giving each of his brothers a short hug. Tim and Damian took time to finish their drinks. But after which, Tim went to bed. And Damian called of Titus to follow him.

After finishing fixing up the leftovers, Alfred took a short peek towards the boys room. Dick, Jason, and Tim were all settled into their warm blankets, but Damian’s bed was surprisingly empty. Alfred figured he probably went to the restroom.

He looked at his Master’s bedroom. A heavy sighed escaped his lips as he tries to gather enough courage not to tear up at the sight of his master. He felt like he had failed his adoptive son, somehow. Alfred had been there when Bruce had tried twice to end his life, but his presence wasn’t enough to prevent them to happen in the first place. Both times, Bruce was away from Alfred when he did so. But this, time—

Bruce was in the Manor when he tried to end his life. In the Manor, where Alfred always is.

Yet, what had Alfred done? He was not even the first to see his adoptive son, it was Jason, poor Jason who lost his mother to overdose, to see his own father tried to do the same. It may not be obvious, but Alfred was panicking when he was trying to revive Bruce. He could feel his heart stop, trying to mimic Bruce’s. Fortunately, it seems that his notion of life was again proven true, and Bruce opened up his eyes.

Alfred hopes that one day, when it was his time to visit the dead, Thomas and Martha Waynes may have enough kindness in their heart to forgive an old butler who vowed to protect their child, yet failed, _thrice._

_How can you protect someone from himself?_

When Alfred opened Bruce’s door, he was surprised to the sight he saw. It brought uncontrollable tears in his eyes, and Alfred felt his heart break and rebuild at the same time.

For there lies, Bruce asleep, and…Damian and Titus too.

Damian turned towards him, and Titus raised his head too. Alfred shook his head and closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Received some bad news about my uni status. :( but i'll still try to finish this story. i'm not letting it go!


	28. Stay Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce woke up confused. He doesn't understand why his right hand was wrapped in bandages. Why Dick flinches when he reached for a glass. Why Jason is filled with barely contained anger. Why Damian was there when he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff and more hurt at the end :(
> 
> I already have a vague idea on how the batboys would help Bruce, I just hope I could write it well as I imagined it.

Bruce woke up with a pounding headache. He was confused, his mind muffled with silent screams. His chest felt heavy, as if an invisible hand was pumping his heart manually – and it hurts, it hurts so much that his eyes began to water.

But it’s okay, he’s _fine._ He blinked his tears away and noticed that his right hand was bandaged. His muffled mind refused to cooperate with him and he’s finding it quiet hard to remember why his hand was bandaged. It was quiet a while since he had put on a cowl, quiet a time had passed since he was fighting the monsters of Gotham city, so why did he have blood on his hand?

His question was abruptly cut off as his instinct reminded him that he was not alone. He heard soft snoring by his left and was surprised when he had only noticed a small arm wrapped on his waist. He followed it and was just as astonished to see his youngest hugging him from behind. He saw also Titus’s eyes questioningly staring at him, as if _he_ was the odd one in the situation, as if waking up with Damian was the most natural thing in the world.

Was it? Was it truly an anomaly that a father wakes up with his son on his bed? How far had he pushed his sons for his mind to actually consider this as something beyond ordinary?

“I—” he doesn’t even know why he consider even talking with the dog. Had he lost his mind?

He shook his head, trying to clear away his thoughts. The action was enough to wake up Damian.

Like a child that he should be, Damian rubbed his eyes with the arm that was wrapped on his father before. “Morning, Father,” he greeted and yawned as he stretched.

Bruce could merely stare at his son. Should he ask? Should he talk? He suddenly found his mouth uncooperating, as if talking – asking simple words – require too much from him, require much courage.

Damian sat up and patted his dog’s head, Titus leaned his head to his hand. His son was as silent as Bruce was, but unlike Bruce, he seemed content on just _being_ there. Perhaps he knew more than Bruce does? Why does it seemed like Damian does not find the event even a little bit odd? Bruce doesn’t remember sleeping with Damian before? Perhaps when Damian had nightmares, or when he was severely injured after a patrol, Bruce stayed on Damian’s bed, watching him sleep. But he never stayed long enough for Damian to wake up and _know_ that his father cares – _why should it even be a secret?_

Damian stretched some more before getting up. “Let’s get breakfast, Father,” his voice as mild mannered as before. Everything was normal for him.

It baffled Bruce even more. He could merely blink at his son before nodding. His lips remained shut as he stood up from the bed and followed his son outside.

His mind was too loud for him – screaming itself harsh from its void. He doesn’t want to _think_ , to forcefully rattle his head for anything, which is why he was quick to follow his son. He was too exhausted, he felt too tired to decide for his own. He was reduced to an empty man who waits for someone’s words to function.

Damian walked closer to his father and took his hands. Bruce’s eyes widened, but Damian’s remained onward, as if nothing different had happened. Titus quietly prattling by their side. Bruce swallowed his words, should he shake his hand away from his son? Or should he let it be?

Bruce was never known for being a coward – yet at this time, he feared the worse. Thus, he let his son led him, he let Damian’s hand wrap on his.

Damian used his other hand to open the door, and still held on to Bruce as he pulls him out. Bruce remained mute as he follows his son.

He heard clattering from downstairs, a chorus of glass constantly moving. When he and his son reached the entrance of the kitchen, Damian let his father’s hand go in order to seat on his side of the table. Bruce’s eyes widened as he saw all of his sons eating on the dinner table – Tim was usual hugging his mug of coffee, Jason was devouring meat left and right, while Dick was reading Gotham Daily. Bruce coughed, before sitting on the head table. A chorus of ‘Good morning, dad,’ welcomed him as he did so.

Bruce nodded. His eyes became glued on the plate that Alfred served before him. There were small beans drowned in red paste on the side, an egg, some bacons, and bread. It was a heavy breakfast, perhaps so it could help him heal. Heal from what, he wondered. Should he ask Alfred about his bandaged hand?

But wouldn’t be silly, that he didn’t know what happened, and he had to ask someone, as if he’s a child that didn’t know how he got injured playing outside in the park.

_In his hand…_

_A bottle…_

_Spilled pills…_

_He didn’t bother counting…_

Bruce could feel his heart skipping a beat. His chest tightened as if a heavy mental enclosed his ribs and slowly suffocating him. Suddenly it’s getting harder to breathe.

_Warm water enveloped him in a hug…_

_Welcoming him…_

He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the fact that he was _here_ – in the dining area, with _his family._ Not somewhere _else._ His sons’ clattering and talks soon became background noise as Bruce tried to remember _how to breathe._

_He took a deep breathe…_

_His last, perhaps…_

_And submerged his head in the water…_

_He breathes….once….twice…._

_Then he stops._

Bruce gasped as he clasped his hand on his glass of water. At the corner of his eyes, he saw Dick flinched.

_“I said leave!”_

Bruce’s eyes widened as he stared at Dick, but Dick’s eyes remained glued on the paper that he was no longer reading. Bruce could see his hand clenching the corners of the newspaper – it was wrinkled and on the verge of being torn apart.

Now that he noticed it, he turned towards Jason, and could clearly see the barely restrained anger that was enveloping his son. He was unable to notice it before, but now it was written plainly as Dick’s fear of his action. For Jason was trying very hard not to explode and rattle his dad’s shoulders until he was healed, until everything was back as it was. But he couldn’t do that, not when his dad was at this state.

Bruce wasn’t able to read that from his son, however. And all he understood was that his son was _angry_ at him, perhaps even to the point of unforgiving hatred. Because how could he not?

_“I told you how my mother died…And yet, you did the same?”_

Jason was finally back at the Minor, his son, finally _home._

_And what did Bruce welcome him with?_

_A bathtub full of blood…_

_And a father who drowned himself._

Bruce was a selfish bastard who doesn’t deserve love. He doesn’t deserve a second chance.

_“Perhaps someday you’ll learn…”_

And he did.

Bruce knew that he shouldn’t have been alive. He shouldn’t have been here. He should have died at that alleyway. Life had tried to put him down twice, and yet Bruce was stubborn to learn the truth. The world is better off without another Wayne to dirty it with. He was selfish, _taking and taking,_ what doesn’t belong to him. So why should the world bother? Why should he be given peace and happiness?

He doesn’t deserve his sons. He doesn’t deserve a _family._ Look what he had done to them? He _killed_ Jason, he manipulated Tim to be a part of a family that he doesn’t belong with, he _forced_ Damian into a cruel world, and Dick – he pushed him away, he threw a glass of warm milk in the face of someone who openly cared for him. How could he do that to his _sons?_ What kind of a father punish his own sons for _loving him?_ For taking care of him?

In Bruce’s all-consuming hatred, he wanted to throw the plates at his sons and demand them to live him. Because he’ll consume them, he’ll wrap them up in misery, tie their feet with metal, and throw them in the sea. He’ll _drown_ them with his misery.

_Who will make me fine?_

Because that is who Bruce is, a selfish bastard who consumes all those around him.

_Drag me out alive?_

He’ll purge their mouth with pills.

_Save me from myself._

And push them in a bathtub full of blood.

He’ll drown them.

_Don’t let me drown._

  


Bruce forced himself to eat. He could feel Alfred’s eyes concentrating on his. He knew that he was watching him, making sure that he would finish his breakfast. And Bruce does so, just so Alfred doesn’t have to question him. Because he isn’t sure if he could force himself to speak just yet.

He must have finished last because he noticed that his sons were preparing to leave.

“I have something to get from my apartment,” Dick was the first to speak, his head was turned towards Bruce, yet Bruce could see that his eyes were concentrating to a place pass his father’s eyes, as if pretending that he could see his father eye-to-eye.

“Mine too,” Jason didn’t even bother to pretend that he could look at his father. His eyes were glued on the plate as he carries it towards the kitchen.

Tim grunted, but at least he was able to see Bruce’s. Bruce saw nervousness behind those hardened blue eyes. His son was determined, for what, Bruce was unsure.

They all stood up and Bruce followed them with his eyes.

His gaze was sought by his youngest, “Father,” Damian called him.

Bruce looked at his son, he nodded, signaling for him to continue. He still couldn’t find the energy to utter a word.

Fortunately, his youngest doesn’t require him to. “Would you like to accompany me for a walk?” he asked.

Bruce titled his head, confused.

Damian coughed, his cheek coloring with a faint pale pink. “I…I always walk Titus in the morning. Perhaps you could come with me?”

Bruce took his last bite, before nodding.

Damian gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

_You don’t have to thank me,_ Bruce wanted to say, but he could merely nod in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your overwhelming support not just for this story, but also for my personal dilemma. Hopefully my parents would understand my uni problems, if not, I'll just torture Bruce and his kids to purge out my depressive thoughts. Hahaha
> 
> P.S. I love the idea of a song fic so expect a bonus chapter from this story with a song fic format :D


	29. Confessions I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian had something to say to his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the long wait. :)

Damian fetched Titus’s leash in his bedroom as Bruce stayed by the Manor’s door. His other sons had long been gone. His eyes remained glued on the Manor’s gate, as if through his desire, his sons would come bursting towards him – and what? _Hug_ him? Say they _forgive_ him?

What does he truly want? What does he expect from his sons? What gives him the _right_ to expect anything _at all_ from his children?

“Father?” Damian’s voice rattled him out of his stupor. It was for the best, for had it not happened, Bruce could only fear what his mind had in store for him. His mind has always been against _him,_ seemingly working consistently to bring him down. An enemy that he couldn’t _fight,_ he couldn’t _kill,_ he couldn’t –

Yes, Bruce, an enemy you _surrendered_ to.

Bruce felt Damian’s small hand held his bigger ones. It fitted perfectly. And Bruce instinctively wrapped his hand around Damian’s, as if to protect him. He wanted to hold his youngest son’s hand forever, how sappy the thought may be. Well, no one could hear it, hear his greatest desire, aside from his mind’s ears, and his aching heart.

Damian tugged on his hand, as he guided Titus towards the back of the Manor. Bruce followed along, his mouth tightly shut, his mind echoing with silent screams, but Bruce’s face remained indifferent – the practiced mask he had worn since his parents was shot in that alleyway one faithful night.

The backyard of the Manor was enormous. The land that the Bruce owned could practically fit two Arkham Asylum and have a few spares for a parking lot. The backyard of the Manor was filled with a sea of trees that stretched as far as one’s eyes could see. At the end, Bruce vividly remember a terrain, and a small river that leads to a pond. His father sometimes took him there to fish.

Damian was never a talker, perhaps taking on his father’s genes. He was always silent, only had a few words to say. Yet, Bruce could remember how Damian had slowly changed to a chattering kid fitting of the title of the youngest brother. He began to behave like a child of his age _should._ He talked and insulted his brothers, participated in their reckless games like the battle royale challenge for Alfred’s cookies. Bruce could faintly hear his youngest’s laughter as he mercilessly tease his elder, Tim, or perhaps when he was flustered with Dick’s extravagant showcasing of his brotherly affection, or perhaps those times when he just love to discuss violence and gore with his brother, Jason.

Damian stopped. Bruce didn’t even recognize where they were. The trees blurred in his memories, the place merely a haunted memory of those times that he went there with _someone_ other than his shadows. They stood atop a terrain, overlooking the soft flow of the river down below. Titus was minding his own business just a few feet away from their left.

Bruce looked down on his youngest. Damian’s eyes were trained towards the flowing river, as if counting every drop of the water to memory. The father stared at his son, trying to put into memory the tranquility of his face.

“I—” Damian began to speak. But his word was cut off by his own fear? Bruce wasn’t sure. But he saw Damian took a large swallow. His eyes remained glued on the river. Bruce, remained glued on his son’s, as well. “I never—” as if finally gathering up courage, his eyes met Bruce.

Bruce could see the faint traces of tears. Damian’s eyes were glazed with barely contained tears. And Bruce doesn’t understand _why._ Why is his son saddened all of a sudden? Why does he feel as if he _should_ cry but can’t? Bruce’s confusion must have been bluntly reflected on his face as Damian gave a soft amused smile.

Bruce couldn’t help but smile in return.

Damian coughed, bringing the father and son to the current situation. “I—” he began, but was more determined to finish, “I never thanked you, enough—” Bruce still doesn’t understand, he remained silent as Damian continued. “I never thanked you enough, for taking me in. For giving me a home,” Damian’s cheeks reddened. He looked very, _very,_ cute. “For—I know they aren’t your blood, but—“ Damian gave soft curse, “Damnit, I love them. My brothers. I—” he shook his head, and gave a soft chuckle, “this is all Dick’s fault,” he muttered, he shuddered, “he’s all sappy! And now I’m sappy!” Damian pouted. He paused for a second. He crossed his arms and his eyes were once again afraid of meeting his father’s. He was embarrassed, that was for certain.

“I just—urgh—thank you, okay? I wanted to thank you. For giving me something—normal? Something that my— _they—_ ” both father and son knew that the ‘they’ was referred to as the League of Assassins, a nightmare that became history, “wouldn’t given me. Yet you did. And I—” finally, Damian’s eyes met his father. “Thank you. For giving me Alfred, Dick, Jason, and yes, even Tim—I just— _thank you_.” A tear fell down his cheek as he rushed to hug his father.

His words were muffled as he hid his crying face in his father’s chest. Yet, Bruce heard it all the same. _“My family.”_

Bruce was too astonished to comprehend, his youngest son’s words barely registered in his mind. He – his son was thanking him? His arms instantly wrapped around his youngest. He didn’t know how to respond. So instead, he hugged his youngest tighter, and hoped that his silence was enough. That his youngest could hear him, _I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being strong enough._

_But I will._

_I will get better._

_For you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohohoho~ I hope you loved the sappiness of this fic <3


	30. Donuts and Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient with me! And for your continuous support. :)

Bruce and Damian walked back to the Manor, with Titus close behind. They ended up wet as they decided to have a quick dive by the river (more like Damian slipped and Bruce panicking, dived after him, forgetting that the river isn’t that deep. Poor Damian was too embarrassed of his mistake, so Bruce splashed him with some water, and they ended up having a chase).

Alfred nearly had a heart-attack when they got back. Out of practically nowhere, he produced two fluffy towels and wrapped his wards with them. Bruce looked like a stuff burrito. Damian looked like a mini version of Bruce burrito. Titus ran somewhere to whisked water off from his fur. He got scolded by Alfred later.

Father and son spent the rest of the day just lounging along the Manor. They spent an hour or two in the library, just browsing endless books. They spent another in the living room, playing chess (more like Bruce teaching Damian how to be patient). However, they spent the majority of their time in the dining area, in the large table, where Alfred taught them how to bake donuts. Damian demanded that it _must_ be cookies (so he doesn’t have to rely on Alfred anymore for them) but Alfred insisted that it ‘wasn’t the right time’ as if teaching how to bake cookies was something akin to a lost martial arts technique. Bruce managed to convince his son that the donut was better anyway (all of them knew that it was a big lie).

It turns out, baking doesn’t run in the Wayne blood. Within just ten minutes of the activity, they managed to break ten baking utensils, cover the whole area with flour (including Titus and Alfred the cat – who was in the kitchen), and _still_ only managed to create _square sized_ donuts. Square! How the hell did they manage to form a square sized donut?! They both looked baffled and stared at the finish product for almost half an hour, using all their combined detective skills to figure out how they both fail to create circled-shaped donut. Alfred merely sighed, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Alfred still insisted to bake the mysterious square-shaped donut, even with the insistence of the father and son not to, out of embarrassment. But one can never say no to the Pennyworth. Thus, the mystery shaped donuts found themselves in the oven.

After minutes, the donuts were ready to be served. The father-son duo was the first to taste, followed by Alfred, and of course, Titus. Surprisingly, the weirdly shaped donuts were edible and was decent. It didn’t taste as sweet and perfect as Alfred’s circular ones, but they taste warm and…nice. They ended up finishing most of it, but Alfred insisted to save some for later. For when, Bruce has no idea.

Come dinner time, and Bruce found himself in front of the same lonely table. Well, he’s not solely alone, per se. Damian, his youngest, was there by his side, as well as Alfred, serving in the kitchen. But a small part of him, had expected for his other sons to be there as well.

Why should he even be surprised. The same thought that haunted, the same question, _who would ever want to be with you?_ Echoed mildly at the corner of his mind. He tried to suppress it, for the betterment of his youngest. He doesn’t want his son to be burdened by his depleting mood. The day had started nice, better than what Bruce could only dream of, and he doesn’t want to spoil it by his selfish desires of _wanting more._

Damian, was fidgeting as well, but Bruce hadn’t notice. His brothers were supposed to be there, _with their father._ Earlier, Dick had contacted him, to ask about their father and Damian had reported diligently what had transpired. He could hear the small jealously that Dick must’ve forgotten to mask over the phone, but Damian didn’t point it out. Dick had thanked him for being with their father (as if he would be anywhere else) and distracting him. Damian asked if they had finished visiting the psychiatrist and asked when they will be back. Dick said that they indeed and was just meeting in Jason’s place. “We’ll be back soon,” Dick had said.

“Over dinner?” Damian asked.

“Yeah,” Dick answered. There was a brief pause, before Dick said his goodbyes, “Take care, brother.”

“You too,” Damian answered back. Then he heard the line go off.

He could see his father’s mood decreasing. And he knew that the reason may have been his brothers’ disappearance. He wanted to assure his father, but then it may lead to further questioning. Damian doesn’t know how his father would react if he knew that his older sons were visiting his doctor for him. Would he get mad? Would he feel betrayed? Damian and his brothers just wanted the best for his father. They just wanted to help him. And wasn’t this the best way? But how could they explain that to their father?

How could they offer help to someone who doesn’t want it?

“Are you going on patrol tonight?” Bruce’s question snapped Damian out of his musing. His eyes met his father’s, and suddenly, Damian forgot how to read him. Or was it because his father’s emotions were locked so well?

Damian nodded. “Yes.”

Bruce paused for a second. He toyed with his meal for a second, pushing a vegetable centimeter away from its original position. He took a sip from his water before meeting his son’s eyes. “Will you be fine in your own?”

Damian was taken aback by the question. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Bruce nodded. He looked away from his son’s eyes before finishing his drink. He stood up, all of a sudden. He looked at his son and patted his shoulder before saying, “Be careful.”

Damian was then left alone in the dining area, with an unfinished meal, and confusion swirling in his mind.

Had he did…something wrong?


	31. Aftermath I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce tries to control the hatred he felt for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very painful chapter. To write. And to read. So please, eat a chocolate after reading it. Take care of yourself after this. :)

Bruce could feel his blood boiling, his hatred for himself, for what he had done, emerging from the corner of his mind and loudly banging at his head. His head was getting noisy again, echoes of the same insults he had thrown to himself banging at the corners of his head. He thought he had gotten over it, he thought he had forgotten abuses, but here he was, listening to the same words, the same daggers that lit his wrists with elongated _bloody_ lines.

He closed his eyes. _Breathe in. Breathe out._ The same mantra, the same grounding techniques – he remembered them well.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

How could he do that? How could he leave his youngest just to _sulk_? 

_You don’t deserve them._

His head hanged low, as if the words in his head had weight. He could feel the same chill wrapping his veins.

_I hate you. I hate you._

He found himself in front of the mirror.

_I hate you. I fucking hate you._

He could see the shadow of his younger self, eyes flashing with nothing but pure hatred, not for the world, not for the people who pretended to care, not for the person who shot his parents, but for _himself._

_I hate you._

He closed his eyes.

_Why are you even alive?_

He could feel his eyes forming tears.

_You should’ve died instead of them._

He suddenly felt pressure on his chest. It hurts. It fucking hurts.

_You’re a fucking waste of space._

_You don’t deserve them._

_You don’t deserve your life._

_Die._

_Just—_

He had years of training, years of practice, on how to better control his emotions...and yet he let it get the better out of him, again. As if he had not spent years training to submerge it, to overcome it. His emotions were raging inside of him, like a beast who was chained against its wish. They wanted to roam free – to _hurt._

At the end, he was still the same eight-year-old child who could barely get out of his parents' room without forgetting how to breath, without feeling as if the world was ending if he as so much as opened the door and peak outside.

No, he felt safe in his parents’ bed, where he could pretend that they’ll come back, that he won’t be alone anymore.

_You don’t deserve them._

Pathetic, isn't it? 

How pathetic is he?

He had everything that a normal person would ever dream of – money, healthy body, sons, a butler for fuck’s sake – and still he’s hurting. He’s still wishing for death to bang on his door and claim him. His desire for death had never been quenched. And it fucking hurts how he could see his sons suffering from his mistakes, from his weakness.

_You don’t deserve them._

_You should’ve died at that alleyway._

Bruce didn't even think twice, he hurled the first thing his hand caught at the opposite end of the room. The sound of the frame hitting the ground echoed loudly. He shivered upon hearing it, but it didn't stop him. No, rather it made him even angrier. 

He took the next thing his hand could reach and threw it just as hard. Another frame, a glass, his pens, papers, nothing was safe for destruction.

Why can’t he stop himself from hurting the people around him? Is this the definition of a caring father that he had dreamt to be?

No, it was a pathetic dream actually. Who was he kidding? Even with all the money he had, he could never become the father that his sons deserved. Dick needed a father who could inspire him, who could show his love and affection just as easily as breathing. Jason needed a father who could guide him, who could persuade him to follow his morality even if evil pushed him to go beyond the line. Tim needed a father who could always be there for him, who could go to his classes and praise him for every competition, every quiz bee that he won without breaking a sweat. And Damian…he needed a normal father, someone who will take him to the park, who could help bathe Titus, who could tuck him to sleep, who could offer his bed whenever he had a nightmare –

_Just anyone who isn’t Bruce Wayne._

He punched the closest thing that he could. His hand bruised with pain, but he barely recognized it. His head was trumping with words that he knew would hurt him.

Soon, his organized room became the epitome of chaos. 

He could feel his head buzzing, aching, as if he had drunk a liter of vodka. His vision began to swim. He suddenly found his knees weak, barely able to hold his body upright.

He sighed and walked amidst the shattered glass and lay by his bed. He could feel blood tickling down his feet, but he doesn't even have enough energy to care. _You deserve it,_ his head reasoned. Bruce was so used to the words he agreed immediately.

His tantrum took toll of him. He just wanted to sleep, rest his aching head. Yet, in the silence, he could still faintly hear the whispers of hatred. Hatred for himself. 

It's painful, as if a metal crane was pressing at his chest. And he couldn't do anything but endure. Endure the pain, endure the ache, like what he had practiced and perfected for all of his years. 

He sighed and closed his eyes. Tears began to form at the corner of his eyes, and he stopped pretending that they aren’t there. His muffled sobs soon filled the room. And Bruce was tired, so tired, of pretending that he wasn't broken, that he wasn’t scarred, that those years of medicine and therapy actually _healed_ him.

Because it didn’t. Nothing could fix what is fundamentally broken.

He would bear the pain until he died.

_So why not now?_

_Why not kill yourself now?_

_So the pain would stop._

_So you don’t have to suffer anymore._

_In death lies the freedom you so craved._

“I—I can’t.”

_So why not now?_

He cried, and cried, until his cries lulled him to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for waiting patiently! I will post the next chapter in 3 days time, in my birthday! :D


	32. Aftermath II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to post this last Feb 28th 
> 
> *ugly crying*

Damian flinched when he heard shattering by the end of the hall. He was quick to stand but Alfred was already by his side. He looked up at him, eyes pleading to know what was happening. 

Alfred sighed before saying, "let him be." Years of experience had thought him how to deal with his Master's tantrums. These past few days had been hard for Bruce, for his sons, for himself. He already anticipated that this would come sooner. He was just hoping it'll be when one of his sons were not present. But alas, life was cruel. 

Damian eyes furrowed and Alfred knew that he'll start begging to go. He calmly tried to explain, "It might not be best to go. Let him ride out his emotions. He needed it." 

Damian looked as if he wasn't convinced, the stubbornness in his blood pulsing with the desire to fight for what he initially decided to, but the look of firm determination from Alfred squelched it. "Okay," he said, defeated. 

Another crash, followed by three more. Damian flinched every time the sound echoes in the Manor. 

Alfred looked down on the youngest and asked, "Where are they?" Both already knew who Alfred was talking about. 

Damian swallowed before looking up, "Dick said he'll be here, with the others," he looked around the empty chairs, "but..."

Alfred looked around, eyes following. He sighed. "I don't blame them," he said, misunderstanding what Damian was trying to say, "it must've hard for them, to see your father like this." 

Damian nodded. He felt muted. Everything was changing so fast for him, even though he wanted to hold on, to grab something, he couldn't. He suddenly realized how detached he had been with his family. He was taken back to those silent and lonely nights that he wished he had grown up with a more closely bonded family, where he could sneak in his father's bed when he had nightmares, and when his brothers were here to teach him, help him cope. 

He shook his head. No. 

No matter how imperfect, twisted, and dysfunctional his family is, he wouldn't change it for anything.

Tears glistened his eyes. He loved them. He loves his pets, Alfred, his brothers, and his father. Gods, he loves them so much. He wished he could help, someone to tell him what to do, and he'll do it. He'll do anything to help them. Help heal his little family. 

The Manor once again silenced. Damian was shock to hear it so. He hesitantly looked up to Alfred, eyes begging for something. 

Alfred met his eyes, they were soft and full of understanding. "Stay here," his hand lingering on the youngest's shoulders, before giving it a soft pat. 

Damian did. He watched as Alfred walked with purpose to the Kitchen area. He came back with a bag of what Damian had assumed was the first aid kit. 

Alfred walked towards him and handed him the bag. Damian wordlessly carried it and followed Alfred towards Bruce's room. 

They paused by his father's door. Alfred gently turned the knob and pushed the door open. He peaked inside, determining if Bruce had already fell asleep or was preparing for another hour of throwing things. 

He was greeted with soft, heavy snores from the bed. 

Alfred sighed, saying a soft thanks to whoever had granted his wish. He pushed the door open, and let himself inside. He motioned for Damian to come, reminding him also to mind the shattered glasses.

Damian nodded. His eyes widened as he saw how chaotic and disarray his father's room had became - shattered glasses decorated the floor. It was like walking in a mine field. He carefully avoided the shattered pieces and followed Alfred until they were by the bed. 

His father laid on his stomach. He was laid diagonally on the bed, his right hand was hanging by the edge. His feet were also off the bed's corners, as if he merely laid on the bed with no intention of having a proper rest, like a puppet whose strings were cut. 

Damian frowned as he took notice his father's bleeding feet. He walked closer and was about to point it to Alfred when he saw him holding Bruce's right hand, inspecting and carefully pulling some shards away from it. 

His face was filled with sorrow, his eyes were heavy with regret, and his body was hunched as if carrying such heaven burden. 

Damian, even having spent the majority of his years in the most emotionally repressive environment, had developed the urge to hug his adoptive grandfather. 

But his feet remained rooted on the ground. 

Alfred must have just remembered him and he looked towards him to give him an assuring smile. 

Damian gave a small smile back. 

Alfred walked towards him and took the bag, "Help me," he said, even though both knew that Damian could offer little to no help in healing wounds. 

Silently and carefully, they removed the broken shards from his father's feet. Hoping that they could remove the pain from his father's heart as well. 


	33. A Heavy Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened with the three older brothers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavy topic to follow. trigger warning.

**Afternoon. Same day.**

“Well, there goes our plan,” Jason was the first who broke the silence. He and Dick had earlier been to his father’s psychiatrist office in an attempt to know _how_ they could help their father get better, or perhaps even purchase medicine in behalf of him. They were met with bafflement and a little concern as well. Apparently, one needs consent from the patient before the doctor could disclose information. They also made the doctor nervous because he thought that Bruce had become ‘unstable’ enough to warrant his sons to get medicine for him. Both brothers didn’t have the courage to tell the doctor about their father’s attempted suicide. They are also uncertain if it would even be the _right_ choice, since it may require their father to be admitted in a hospital.

It may have been the most logical choice, but both brothers are afraid of _how_ their father might receive the news and even if it would be the right choice. They knew that the hospital that their father would be sent to would not be half as horrible as the Arkham Asylum or even be remotely anything comparable to that, but – hospital would still feel like a cage to him. And their father would surely feel betrayed upon knowing that his sons _snitched_ him to the doctor.

Tim had better luck, though. He was able to meet with Dr. Leslie and because the doctor was their family friend, he was accommodated immediately. “I tried to _not_ tell her about dad,” Tim had said, they were all seated in Jason’s apartment, “but I have a feeling that she does, maybe not all, but she knew who we’re talking about, I think,” Jason had never heard Tim so unsure of himself. Tim held his hands tightly, pushing imaginary strings wrapped on his fingers.

“She’s very perceptive,” Dick said, an obvious attempt to reassure Tim. “It doesn’t really matter,” he said as blunt as he could, “Dr. Thomskin is a family friend. If someone ought to know, it should be her.”

Jason nodded. But both elder knew that it will take more to reassure Tim that it really wasn’t a big deal.

Caffeine does have its side-effects, huh, Tim?

“Anyway, she said that we just have to assure him and not overwhelm him,” Tim began. “ _The mind is a very complicated thing,_ she said. There isn’t a one sure way to solve – “ he paused, uncertain of which words to use. He was still in denial about everything. Like every other child, he had grown up to see his father as someone indestructible, a _hero_ , which he literally _is._ And now, his father’s strong, domineering, hero image was shattered the same day he saw his older brother pulled out a _barely breathing_ body of his father. He was at the phase, where he was lost. They all were.

“Just fucking say it,” Jason broke him out of his reverie. “It’s a fucking depression, that’s what it was.”

Dick remained silent in his seat.

Tim could feel tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Words were caught on his throat, and he found himself surrounded with painful silence.

Jason grunted, a growl of annoyance slipping from his lips. “I hate how we kept dancing around the subject. Yeah, dad has a fucking depression, so what?” He made a mistake once, when he was blinded by his fear. That fear, that silence, is what took his mother away from him. He could not let that happen again. “It’s just another shit that dad had to go through,” _a fever_ , just as they had explained it to Damian.

“But it’s not just that,” Dick’s soft voice cut through Jason’s harsher once.

Jason stood straighter, his shoulder hardening, as if he was preparing for a fight. Tim was prepared to stand between his brothers, but Jason had remained silent. Both turned their heads towards the eldest, hanging to his next words.

“Jay, dad had been battling this since he was eight. The person that we knew, the one who adopted us, it was him with _it._ I just—” tears started to cascade down his cheeks, his voice cracked, “I just didn’t know if he could ever—if you have lived all your life with it, would you ever want to live a life without it?” He was openly crying now, “he had denied help for so long, I’m afraid that—” he looked at his brothers, stared at them, “what if didn’t want to be better?” He looked at Jason, “what if we’re just denying him of his choice?”

Jason clenched his fist. “I want you to think very carefully, Dick,” the brothers could vividly see the flames burning in his eyes, “I won’t hear you justify what he had done!” _what his mother had done!_ Was it right? Was it right to leave your child behind? Isn’t that selfishness?

Dick stood up and he grasped Jason’s shirt and shook him. “Jay! It was _his_ choice!”

Jason grabbed the eldest wrist with the same ferocity. “ _He_ was hurting!”

“I just—I just don’t want to deny him that,” Dick said, his voice sounding tired.

Before any of them could react, Jason punched Dick. Dick fell down immediately. Tim stood up between them. “Jay—”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?! How the _fuck—_ how the _hell_ could you say that?! Is that what you want—for the old man to fucking kill himself? Are you so sick of him you wanted him to _die_?!” Jason screamed; his voice hoarse. He didn’t even notice it, but his cheeks were already tainted with his tears. “And then what? He’ll leave us then, what about Damian? Have you ever thought what he’ll fucking do after—“overdose _, pills scattered by the floor, his mother—his father, they’re not breathing, they’ve left me, why, why, why, why_ – “yeah, it might be selfish, I don’t _fucking_ care. He needs to live. I don’t care _how_ , but he can’t leave Damian at this age. He can’t leave us.” _He can’t leave me. Not again._

Tim didn’t even think twice, he hugged Jason. Jason’s tears were like water in a river, they kept on flowing and he doesn’t know how to make them stop. He could feel Tim’s arms around him and it gave him a sense of comfort. But the hurt still persists. And he kept on crying. And crying. Until it was too much.

He buried his head on his younger brother’s shoulders. And openly wet on him.

Dick was stunned for a moment. Before reason settled in. He stood up and hugged them both. “I’m sorry, I’m so stupid,” he began. “I’m not fucking thinking, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologized like a man kneeling in an altar.

“You’re an idiot,” Jason muffled, his head still stuck on his younger’s shoulder. But he finally hugged back.

Dick nodded, “yes, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

_Is it selfish of us to ask for someone to stay?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> covid-19 is getting worse :( i hope this would all be resolve soon. i don't know if we could all survive another month of strict quarantine.   
> stay safe guys! 
> 
> p.s. i've already written jason's pov BUT i accidentally dropped my laptop. then it crashed. then all i've written got lost. rip jason's pov. T-T


	34. Restart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to healing starts tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm alive T_T   
> Thank you for your support. I do apologize for not updating for almost a year. I've started this as an undergrad student and now I'm nearing graduation! YEY! ^_^ 
> 
> I would've posted this last night but I got a bad case of stomach pain. I'm still suffering a bit from it, so I could only write one chapter today. T_T
> 
> How's your year so far? XD

It was almost pass midnight.

Damian was already late for their scheduled 'Bat Night Shift' as his eldest brother Dick loves to refer to their patrol.

He couldn't help it though, he was so worried for his father, seeing his father with his hands and feet bleeding just glued Damian's body on the ground. He was numbed and detached at that time that he was Alfred in fixing the wounds of his father.

It was troubling how Alfred moved methodically, as if those kinds of wounds were frequent on his father, as if self-inflicting wounds were something that he had seen many times before. But that was the truth, wasn't it? Damian had seen first-hand how his father deliberately hurt himself—to what? How could his father find satisfaction in hurting himself? In making himself bleed?

Damian couldn't understand a lot of things. He _wants_ to, he wants to understand what is hurting his father, what is forcing his father to hurt _himself_ , but he couldn't. He couldn't understand why his father would seek pain—death even.

He shuddered at the thought and he almost faltered in his steps. He had to wait for one of his brothers to take him to Gotham. He had insisted on just taking the Batmobile, since it could function remotely or automatically—either the AI installed in the car would drive or Alfred using the BatComputer.

But his brothers had insisted that he should wait for one of them (only Dick and Jason, of course if his oldest will insist on treating Damian as a child, then he'll drag Tim down with him, since Tim is also underage) to accompany Damian to the town.

But the clock was mocking him. And Damian was never known to have much patience anyway. He knew that Alfred was already taken his rest (Damian had insisted that he did so. He could see how drained his Grandfather had been, as if tending to Father's wounds had physically sucked out his energy—maybe it did) so there's literally no one stopping Damian in sneaking out.

With a final look at the clock, Damian stood up and buckled his weapon in his back.

His brothers are taking too damn long. Who knows how many criminals had gone wild in the city?

He'll just try and shift the blame to Tim somehow, when Dick scolds him later.

He was about to punch the code in the garage door when it opened by itself. Damian had to fight hard to swallow the scream that threatened to force itself out of his mouth. "AH—-"

Jason's smug face greeted him from the other side. There was a wicked glint in his eyes, as if he had read Damian's mind. "So, trying to sneak out, huh?" he teased, his hands on his waist, his back straightened as if to look more imposing and authoritative.

Damian rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "What am I? Five? I'm Robin of Gotham. I'm out to Patrol!"

Jason pretended to be shock. "Without parental guidance?!" He looked like Damian's guidance counselor when his stupid teacher had complained under the guise of 'being worried about his students' how his father was never there to fetch him or take him to school.

Damian grunted, the same way he did when he got pissed at that stupid teacher. "Shut up! I'm going out on Patrol."

" _Sneaking_ out of Patrol," Damian flinched when Jason caught him, "Cause if I remembered correctly Dick said to _wait_ , didn't he?" If possible, Jason's evil grin grew wider. "Looks like someone's not following Mama Hen's instructions."

Damian flushed in mild anger and embarrassment, "Try to say a word and I'll beat your ass!" He pulled out his Katana as if to make a point. The sword shining under the Garage's poor lighting.

Jason laughed, amused by his homicidal brother's tendencies. Damian truly is the least boring out of his three other brothers. He couldn't help it and he shuffled his younger brother's hair. "Don't worry, it'll be our little secret."

Damian pouted but didn't move to remove the hand on his head. He wouldn't admit it but he feels... Oddly warm whenever his older brothers would pat his head like he does with his dog, Titus.

Jason grinned then handed his brother a helmet. Of course he also has to abide by safety rules. Who knows where Mama Dick has his eyes? For all he knew, Dick is already aware that Damian had tried to snuck out just now. "Here, hop on. I'm tasked with baby sitting tonight."

Damian gasped, "BABYSITTING?!" He punched Jason in irritation, but of course, his older brother was able to dodge and counter it.

Jason used Damian's momentum and threw him, like a good older brother (in his opinion, a little house rousing isn't bad).

Damian easily somersaulted in his feet.

Jason whistled. "Learning some moves from Dick?"

"Tch," it was not a denial on Damian's part.

Jason merely laughed and started his motorcycle. Damian followed suit and sat on his brother's back, the helmet quiet large on his head.

They were on their way to the city when Damian asked over his brother's shoulders what happened while they were gone. "What took you so long?"

Jason bit his tongue for a while, uncertain on how he'll rely Dick's stupid reasoning earlier and if it is even something that his little brother should be concerned with. "We had a detour," he kept it simple. The wind rushed past through their ears, whispering loudly.

But Jason could still feel Damian's silence, his aching curiosity. He's really not the best man to explain complicated stuff to this brat.

"I'm not a kid, you know," as if hearing Jason's internal monologue, Damian grunted a reply. "I know I can't fully understand what happened to Father, and why he is hurting himself—"

Jason could feel his brother's arms tightening their hold against his shirt.

"But I want to know, okay? I may not able to fully understand it, but I _want_ to," Damian finished, his resolve strengthening his voice. His Father's sickness remained a mystery to him, something that he was also afraid of fully understanding. Because regardless of this fear, he still wants to know.

He still wants to help. In any way he can.

"Tch," Damian was surprised to hear his signature grunt on his older brother's lips. Perhaps their apparent closeness these past few days had allowed them to copy each other's quirks. "Fine," Jason started, "Dad's psychiatrist refused to give us update on his medicines, or even about his diagnosis. Patient confidentiality and all that." There were still leftover irritation in his voice.

Damian remained quiet as Jason finishes. "Tim talked to Dr. Leslie and she told us that it's best for Dad to see a therapist. That maybe we could coax him into talking to one."

Damian's eyes widened, "Dr. Leslie knew?" That Tim brother of his really had a big mouth!

Jason shrugged, they're nearing the city now. "Maybe, maybe not. Tim assured that he didn't spill Dad's name. But knowing Dr. Leslie, perhaps she already had a hunch." _Dr. Leslie is a family friend after all,_ that's what Dick had reminded them. "No matters if she knew or not, at least she gave us solid advice."

Damian nodded. The Wayne Tower is getting bigger as they closed in to the Gotham City, like a beaming light that welcomes the brothers back. "Can't we just talk to him? Or Alfred?" Damian asked, he doesn't understand why his Father has to talk to someone else. Surely, even if they're not emotionally competent it's better if Father talked to someone that is close to him.

Jason sighed, no matter how much Damian insisted that he's not a child, he still resembles one. An innocent curiosity, the simple mindedness brought by young age. "Dad needs a professional therapist, kiddo." Their father needs someone who could fully understand the depth of his pain and help him overcome it. "And sometimes, it's better talking about your life to a complete stranger. So there's no judgment, you know?"

Damian pouted. He wanted to support and help his Father personally, how could he do that when he couldn't really understand his Father's condition? How could he do that when Father needed someone other than him? "Can't we—" he swallowed his hesitation, somehow, he felt a bit at ease when he was with Jason, a different kind of easiness when he was with Dick, or God forbid, Tim.

It just felt like Jason wouldn't judge him for things that Dick easily would, like fantasizing about filleting the Joker alive. Or at this moment, about his insecurity. "Can't we help Father?" Do we need a total stranger to do that? Does their Father not need them to heal?

Jason sighed. He wanted so badly to scratch his neck or his head. But his hands remained steady on his motorcycle's wheels. He's really not cut out for these emotional shit. Goddamnit, he just had a row with Dick and cried in front of his two brothers! And now he had to console their youngest's growing insecurity.

Why do the gods hate him? "It's not as if we're gonna be useless, or something. We could still support him, I think. Like Alfred does," he really doubt that he's making any sense, but he has to do something about Damian. His youngest brother shouldn't be feeling this way. "Alfred had been helping Dad, didn't he? In ways that he can?"

Was that the right comparison? Jason prayed that it was.

Damian slowly nodded. He—Well, that was technically right, wasn't it? Alfred may not have been their Father's psychiatrist or his therapist, but he was there. Whenever Father needed him. He was there cooking for them, fixing their beds, maintaining the house, and healing their wounds. He might not actively fight and patrol with them but he's still there.

And Alfred being _just there_ helped their little family grew closer.

"Okay," Damian whispered, as the city lights grew brighter. He might not be the one to talk to his Father and help him with his sickness, nor be the one who cooks for his Father, but he'll be there. By his Father's side. Supporting him as he becomes better.

Damian looked up and stared at Jason's back. He moved his arms and fully rested his head on his older brother's shoulders.

 _They'll_ be there. Dick, Jason, Tim, and him. And _they'll_ help their Father become better. And _they_ would stop him from every hurting himself again.

"Jason—" Damian said, calling out.

"Yeah?" Jason was too thankful that they are both wearing helmets and his little brother couldn't see his flushed face. He just had to have two emotional scenes for this day.

Damian smiled. "Thank y—"

The sounds of tire screeching.

 _"Shit!"_ Jason's voice.

Then an explosion.

The Wayne Tower stood still, as the city around it was engulfed in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie


	35. You're Going To Lose Your Soul Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A unique surprise.

Bruce was floating in murky water. Or has he? He was lying down in a solid ground—but he felt wet, surrounded by water. He blinked his eyes slowly and looked around.

There was nothing to see. Everywhere he looked there was nothing but darkness. He was stuck in a void. No light, no end. Just him and the water around him.

Instead of panic, he felt oddly warm. Empty. But not lacking. He looked at his hands and studied the black water flowing beside him. It doesn't feel anything differently from an ordinary tap water. It's neither cold nor hot, just plain liquid—that looks black.

He couldn't feel a thing. His limbs didn't feel as if it had any strength left in it. So instead of doing the most sensible thing and explore the place where he was, he instead decided to lay his head down the ground and stare at the nothingness in front of him.

The water touched his ears and soaked his clothes. But he found himself not caring at all.

He doesn't care about anything at all. Why he is here, why he was alone, and where the others must be. It's oddly fine to him. Being here, alone, and soaking wet.

It doesn't matter. Nothing else does.

He closed his eyes. The water rose around him.

He took one last breathe before he was drowned.

He gasped awake. It felt somehow hard to breathe. As if the air isn't fitting inside his lungs. He clutched his chests as he sat in his bed. "What—"

He looked around and saw that he was still in his room. The moon illuminating a faint glow of light in his room. There was nothing amiss in his room. His clothes were dry. And he could see things.

He flinched when he felt a pain in his hand. He looked at it and was shocked to see that it was wrapped in bandages. He doesn't remember getting in a fight at a patrol. Has he been patrolling?

No, that's not what he did last night. Didn't he? He didn't engage in any Bat Activities or Night Patrols last night. He was...he was just here. As far as he could remember, he didn't leave the Manor last night.

He decided not to dwell deeper into it and despite the nagging voice in his head that seemingly sounds close to Alfred's, he adjusted the bandages and unwrapped it in his hand. There were red lines on his palms, as if there were opened by something. A faint stench of disinfectant reached his nose.

Ah. He remembered now. He had been upset. For something so stupid. Like his sons not being there at the dinner table. As if he had the _right_ to expect otherwise. As if he had the _right_ to be called a father to the boys that he had failed to raise.

He clenched his fist, intentionally aggravating his healing wounds. The pain was immediate. The red lashes in his hand screamed to be put into rest, to let itself heal, to not let itself bleed. But Bruce marveled at the blood that cascaded down his palm, designing his bed in droplets of red.

Pain was something he was familiar with.

Pain was something he deserves.

There was a faint rumble. Bruce was taken out of his musing with it. He looked to his window and saw smokes climbing from the Gotham city to the sky. The Wayne Tower's light a faint distant. Like a switch flipped, Bruce immediately stood up, his mind halting ideas of his hurt earlier, of his yearnings as a father he couldn't be, and was replaced with the resilience—the mask of the Bat.

He ran towards the Cave. Surprised to see that Alfred was already there. "Alfred!"

His voice shook Alfred's trance. Bruce saw how his butler's body flinched.

Alfred, taken by surprise? For all of his years, Bruce had never seen Alfred became unaware of his surroundings, even after all of his trainings, Bruce was still unable to surprise his pseudo-father. "Alfred?" What had taken away all of Alfred's attention, rendering him almost vulnerable.

Bruce walked closer to the monitor. His eyes widened as he saw the city burning right in front of his eyes.

There were multiple windows in the screen. Each a CCTV footage at the main parts of the city. There were police helping out the panicked civilians and firemen trying their best to put out the fire immediately.

There were four bigger window screen, each at the corner of the huge monitor. Two of which were showing the city buildings, as the owner of the camera rushed towards the scene. It functions like a body cam, a minuscule camera that is embedded in the Robins' uniform (Alfred sewed it, while Tim developed it). It functions also as a tracker.

" _Alfred_?! Do you copy? I'm also near the sight. I can't get hold of _Jason_." Bruce could hear his eldest, Dick, rattled in the communication network. The leader in him wanted to scold his son about 'codenames' and how it wasn't safe to speak of their real name, despite the network broadcasting from a private satellite and a personal frequency.

But Dick's voice is shivering—worry evident with his every word. He sounded as if he was ten seconds away from a panic attack.

"I couldn't get hold of Robin either. I don't—I can't—" Tim's voice sounded from the other side of the monitor. He could see a computer and dozens of codes swimming in Tim's camera. He stopped somewhere probably to set out his laptop and grab hold of the signal.

"It's like their camera's dead!" Barbara, the Oracle, told from the center window. IT was showing dozens of codes, similar to Tim, and a flashing of CCTVs on the side. "I knew that they're one their way to the city before it exploded."

Bruce couldn't feel his arms, his feet, or any part of his body. The panicking voice of his family merely a background noise to him. There was a buzzing noise, loudly echoing in his head. He could fear his heart stopped beating. And the air around him seemingly suffocating him. He knew that he should do something but he can't.

Suddenly the cameras darkened. And every window except for Dick, Tim, and Barbara's flashed a static signal.

And then a raspy voice spoke...

" _Batsy. Batsy. Batsy_ —"

Followed by a cruel laugh.

" _I warned you didn't I?_ "

Bruce's eyes was glued on the sinister smile on the screen.

" _I told you what would happen if you brought your friends to our little game_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie


	36. History's Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night Bruce's nightmare became a reality. A son lost. Once. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

It was cold that night. It was snowing, a white blanket of snow covering the town. All the shops were closed, the streets were bare of any life. People are inside their houses, basking in the warmth from their fireplace.

Bruce should have been one of them. He had numerous heating mechanism in the Manor after all. Alfred may have even prepared him a hot cup of coffee...or chocolate. It doesn't matter really. He should've been inside.

 _They_ should've been inside.

The roar of his motorcycle echoed around the town. Despite the slippery road, the danger of him losing control of his wheels due to the snow, Bruce pressed the gas and pushed his ride to go faster. Faster. Faster.

He needed to get to that place in time. Not a minute late. Not a second late.

The coldness had turned to fog and its threatening to block his vision. The freezing temperature was forcing his body to shiver despite his bulky suit. But he couldn't give up now. Not when he was so close.

He had warned _him._ He had warned that stupid son of his that where he's heading is definitely a trap. That he was being baited, that the enemy was using his emotions against him. And that he should fight to control it. But not to physically confront an enemy he was still too young to battle.

Control his emotions? How hypocritical of Bruce to tell that to his son, when he had long since forgotten a time when his own emotions _hadn't_ controlled him. No matter how much meditation he does, no amount of training did fully allow him to have reign over his deepest emotions.

Sadness. Regret. Anger.

 _Worry_.

He pushed his mobile to go faster. He had to gripped the motor wheel tighter, since it was getting harder to not let the lack of friction shove his motorcycle off the road. This was all his fault. Wasn't it?

He shouldn't have taken _him_ in. He shouldn't have offered a home to that child who was lost and hungry in that street. He should've turned his back on _him._ After all, who was _he_ but just another orphan of Gotham? Who was _he_ but another product of tragedy? There were numerous homeless children on that street, stomach empty, eyes dull, yet it was _he_ that caught his attention. It was _he_ with his jackhammer and unbelievable courage to rob The Batman off his wheel, that caught his eyes.

It was _he_ that Bruce had chosen to lure into a false sense of security. A false sense of family.

A false promise of a better future.

And to think that he had forced his vigilantism on a child who dreamt of going into college.

His selfishness, his aching desire for company, had rob his son of a better future.

_Good job there, Bruce._

He could almost see the warehouse now. Its sight became a light of hope to his already dimming determination. He pressed on his accelerator, pushing his vehicle to go beyond its limits. Damn it to hell if he broke his own legs, his own arms, his fucking ribs, he don't give a damn! He needed to be near his son.

He's almost home. He's almost in his arms.

And when he is finally, Bruce swore in his mother's name that he won't ever let go. That he would correct his mistake. And that he'll give him a better future.

Even if that meant he had to quit being The Batman.

His vehicle halted. He jumped from the motorcycle, body running in almost autopilot. "Jason!" he screamed his son's name, his voice wavering with hope. He's almost there. He's almost there—

**_BOOM!_ **

Bruce was thrown back to the snow. His ears were ringing. "Wha—" he slowly stood up, his legs shaking with the force of the explosion. His eyes widened—fires burning around him.

It was snowing that night. But all he could feel was the burnt in his skin.

"Jason!"

* * *

_"I warned you, didn't I?"_

The same coldness gripped his heart this night. He was dressed in civilian clothes, he didn't even bother changing to his cowl. There wasn't any time left.

The freezing temperature hugged tightly on his skin. He even forgot to wear a jacket. He was in his shirt and in his night pants. He could feel his body, his hands turning red due to the cold. He wasn't even wearing a stupid helmet. He was too much in a trance, too focused on getting out of the Cave and into the city—where his _sons_ were.

He was riding a motorcycle again this night. His hands gripping the stirring wheel with aching familiarity. The wind was loudly whispering against his ears. He paid it no mind, the Wayne Tower welcoming him.

The city was in chaos. There were numerous police cars scattered around. Civilians were panicking all about. There was a lot of screaming, a lot of asking for help, for answers. Why is this happening? Whose fault was this?

Fortunately, the motorcycle was installed with a small radio that catches the private frequency of the Batcomputer. He could hear his children talking over the radio, planning about the best way to help the people and apprehend who was responsible.

As if it wasn't easy enough to guess.

"The Joker is probably working with The Riddler," Dick was out-of-breath as he said his report.

Bruce probably guessed that his eldest was on some high building, already finished assessing the damage done and clued in on the footprints of the unique criminals in Gotham. Humanity is a creature of habit, and the Arkham Criminals aren't an exemption. "There was Riddler's stupid question mark symbols on some of the defused bombs."

And of course, Joker's insane laugh broadcasted earlier was enough proof that he was also a part of this chaos.

He always was.

_"Tell me! Why is he still alive?!"_

Bruce gritted his teeth. But otherwise remained focus on his drive around town. He could feel it, a part of him was singing with hope. He's close. He's close.

"Have you traced the remains of the tracker?" Dick said.

"I'm close—" "On it—" Tim and Barbara's voice overlapped each other.

"Where—"

"I got it!" Tim then ratted off a list of coordinates. Bruce had memorized the city like the back of his hand. He didn't even need a GPS to pit-point the exact location. It was off in the East part, quite close to where he was already heading. He turned to the right and pushed forward his accelerator.

"But it just popped up—Nightwing, it might be a trap." Tim's hesitant voice added.

"We'll just have to risk it." Dick said on the other line.

But Bruce had already closed off the radio. It all became a background to him anyway.

He was too focused on saving his sons.

 _His sons._ Jason. Damian.

Had he not learned his lesson before? Had he not already lose Jason once? And now what had he done—and now he might lose his youngest too. His blood son.

The empty warehouse loomed closer. Why is with criminals and empty warehouses? Why must it always be the gloomy ones that they just had to occupy?

It doesn't matter though. The familiar sight of it pushed his memory of that night forward. It was as if he could see the shadows of snow falling around him. The cold making him feel more hollow. His body was on the same auto-pilot mode. A step forward. One. Two.

He was almost bracing himself for the explosion. Like it did. The night before.

The night he had lost his son.

And now will he lost another?

He could barely hear the echoes of the madman as he walked closer to the warehouse. "Batsy! Batsy! Batsy!" the madman mocked from where it hid on the warehouse. The voice was loud, the maniacal laugh even louder.

_"Where are you Batsy?!"_

He didn't even notice how bare his arms felt. How he was only in his civilian clothes, in his night ware. If he did come inside, he wouldn't have anything to protect himself. He couldn't fight the madman by himself, with his bare arms and wounded hand.

But it doesn't matter. He'll embrace death if it meant that his sons would be safe.

With a final resolve—Bruce ran forward.

"Jason! Damian!" he called out for his boys.

He was getting nearer. He was almost at the front of the warehouse when—

**_BOOM!_ **

There was ringing in his ears, a buzzing noise that is muffling the world around him. His head was aching, his body screaming in pain. It felt as if his body was thrown around by Bane. He slowly blinked his eyes open, it hurts, so much, his eyes felt too dry, like sand was thrown inside of his eyelids.

"Bruce! Bruce are you okay?!" There was a panicking voice in front of him.

Bruce took a deep breathe before opening his eyes fully. He was greeted with the worried face of his eldest, Dick Grayson.

Dick's face morphed into a small smile when he noticed that his father was alive. Bruised, but alive. "I'm glad you're fine," there was relief in his voice. He thought he has been late. He was too shock to see his father in his civilian clothes in front of the location. He was originally there to scout the first. And when he saw his father, he was about to leap in front of him and push him back (maybe nag him also for going out without his cowl, his protection, his _mask_ ).

It was a good thing that he had decided to jump in front of his father, because at that exact moment, the warehouse suddenly exploded. He protected his father with his body and took most of the debris and flames, since their suit is built to withstand close range explosion.

His father's night clothes? Not so much.

"What the hell are you thinking?!" ah yes, his familiar worry nag had come. He couldn't help it. Had he not been there, at that exact time, he could barely imagine what would've happen to his father. They had barely saved him from _himself_ , they're not about to lose him to some madman. "You shouldn't have come!" That was of course, stupid of him to ask his father not to come to their aid, but still. They had the thing in their control.

Joker and Riddler were already apprehended and handed over to the authorities.

And Jason and Damian were already safe back in the Cave. They were only on the outskirts of town when the explosion happen. A minor bomb that gone off near them, and Jason lost his control in the bike due to the sudden incident. They merely have minor injuries, only sustaining some road grazes.

Barely injured that they were able to help Tim in capturing the Joker and Riddler.

He was about to explain everything to his father when Bruce suddenly stood up and pushed him off. "What—" Dick was about to complain when he saw his father's eyes.

Bruce's eyes were lost...and distant. He was looking in the flames as if he doesn't see it fully, as if he's seeing something far off. His legs were shaking, but he had stepped forward.

"Bruce—stop—" Dick immediately stood in front of his father and slightly pushed his shoulders to stop him from going into the debris. The flames hasn't subsided yet after the flame.

But Bruce merely shrugged his hands off and continued walking. His right arm outstretched weakly towards what remains of the warehouse, as if reaching from something that only he could see. He staggered towards the remains, feet unsteady, but body determined to reach his goal. "Son—"

Dick stopped the whimper that threaten to come out of his lips. He stood in front of his father again and this time, forcefully pushed his father back. "Bruce! Dad!" he kept on calling on his father, but Bruce seemed to still be deaf to his pleas.

"They're not there! They're safe! They're not there!"

Bruce's body was showing signs of shutting down. He could barely stand straight, leaning almost all of his weight towards Dick. There were tears in his eyes, flowing down his dirtied face, "please...I have to..."

Dick couldn't stop himself, and there were a few tears in his eyes now. "No, they're safe. Dad, they're safe." He pleaded, hoping that he could get through his father somehow.

But Bruce couldn't hear him. He could only hear his own cries. That night. At the lost of his son.

Couldn't see him. He could only see the snow. The flames. As it engulfed the remains of his son.

Couldn't feel him. He could only feel the burnt on his skin. The hollowness of his son.

In his mind, he had killed his youngest.

In his mind, he had lost his son. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo Joker didn't really have a big role on this one, sorry XD this is still family centric, and Joker's not part of that lol he's merely a plot device. 
> 
> Though, originally, he's not even supposed to be here at all. But when I was drafting Chp34, I suddenly heard his 'batsy batsy' laugh in my head and I'm like !!!! and so the bombing happened lol
> 
> Tbh, I'm kinda lost with how I'll proceed with this story. I have to reread my earlier chapters to refocus myself. I already had a general idea on where I want to take this, but other ideas are scattered all around >////< Luckily I was blessed with a stroke of luck today and so I managed to draft some chapters (you're gonna cry, i promise you that :D) 
> 
> Is my writing okay? Cause somehow it felt like it's not. :(  
> Like it lacks something and I don't exactly know how to fix it.


	37. Call of the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of last night's explosion. An accumulation of suppressed emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relax people, no one's going to die............
> 
> yet?

Bruce opened his eyes to the greeting of the afternoon sun. He briefly wondered why he would wake up at such a late hour. As far as he had known himself, he would wake up either before the sun even made its appearance in the sky or at an hour after the sun lighted up his bedroom window. Yet, today he had woken up when the sun was only an hour away from fading out from the sky.

His arms were heavy beside him, rested on the soft sheet of his bed. He clenched and unclenched his fists, so far his arms aren't broken. But there were weight surrounding each of them, and something liquid settled just above his skin. He lifted his right arm and noticed that there were patches of white on his skin—like he had been burnt.

_It was snowing that night. But all he could feel was the burnt in his skin._

Bruce didn't even notice the tears forming in his eyes, he didn't even realize the wetness in his face, the tears dropping from the corner of his eyes.

Ah, he remembers now.

He supposed he should've expected that now. After all, he did failed once didn't he? And it's not like he had learned his lessons anyway. He had evidently placed himself in this situation, he had adopted his sons, opened his arms to pulled them towards him, and pushed them into danger.

A grimace formed on his lips. He's the absolute worse parent in the world. Whereas others would dissuade their children into danger, he's the one to push them towards it. He's the one who taught them the lie of justice—that it was something attainable. He was the one who told them that it will pay off, that they're doing the best for their beloved city—but that's not the truth wasn't it?

What had Batman ever done good for his city?

What had Batman ever done good for anyone?

What had Bruce ever done good for his family?

"Master Bruce?" Alfred asked from where he stood in the doorway. "Perhaps you would like to take a bite? I've prepared afternoon snack for you, sir."

Bruce nodded. He really doesn't feel like eating but it will feel too much like an inconvenience to Alfred if he denied him that. He would only have to take a bite, to show his appreciation for Alfred taking care of big burden like him, so why should he even deny him of that?

He pulled himself up, but wince when his burned skin grated the bandages. Alfred was beside him in an instance, helping him get up. He felt embarrassed, he was acting as if he had a row with most of the Gotham villains when he had just been grazed by a minor explosion of an abandoned warehouse. He wanted to push Alfred away, to yell at him for making him feel like an invalid, but he held on to his tongue. He bit his cheek and swallowed down the bumbling emotions inside of him.

"I'm okay," he found his voice cracking, like there was something in his throat and its restricting the words from coming out.

Alfred looked at him but instead prompted not to comment on it. After he had helped Bruce on his feet, he took a step back and clasped his hands in front of him.

Bruce remained quiet. His body felt heavy, like there were shackles on his feet and his arms, every step forward felt akin to pulling a ball of iron. Aside from that, there was the itches beneath his bandages, though the burns are most likely healing well, there was a bigger part of him that wants to pull at the bandages and prevent his skin from healing.

As a reminder? He's not sure of.

Bruce's face was his usual mask of indifference. There was a bumbling of emotions inside of him and its taking a toll of his energy to numb it down.

Because feeling numb is more familiar, more favorable, than those feelings of rage and grief in his heart.

Master and his butler walked the halls of the Manor to the dining area located below. The Manor was silent, as if it was grieving. The same way it did that night Jason was taken away from his arms. He could feel the freezing air of that night gripping his chest, making him shudder.

But he shouldered on, the same way he did that time. He pushed down the despair in his heart and squelched it, pretending it no longer exists. Not feeling anything is better than feeling the range of emotions in him. Not saying anything is better than hearing the grief in his voice.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ because no matter how much he apologizes, he could never take back that night. No matter how much he'll apologize, his son will never hear that. Joker may have been the one who placed the bomb, but Bruce is the one who pushed the trigger.

He is the one who killed his own son.

The bread felt stalled in his mouth. He recognizes the flavor in his tongue, he could taste the flavor rolling in it, but it doesn't bring him anything else. He knows what he is eating, but he doesn't feel it so. There's no joy, no sadness, no enthusiasm or disinterest, he's chewing the food because that's what he'd been told to do.

He's eating, because that's what expecting of him. But if he could, he'll rather not attempt to eat.

"Master Jason had already returned to his apartment last night, after Master Dick helped him with his _minor_ injuries," Alfred talked to, from where he sat in his left. He had a cup of tea in front of him, and he's currently seasoning it with sugar.

It was something unusual, Bruce had noticed. Usually when Alfred served Bruce any food in the dining table, he will be quick to go out and do something back in the kitchen, maybe to prepare for later's servings (as he prepares no same dish, and often his cooking requires a lot of time to prepare). But today, he was taking his time drinking tea. Today, he was beside Bruce, casually stirring his cup.

Bruce thought that he should feel happy, satisfied even. After all, it was a comforting thought that he has a family member joining him in the dinner table.

But he doesn't feel anything. He's like a void, as if his body couldn't produce any emotions to fill in the gap inside of him.

"Master Dick was also back in Bluhaven, but he had assured that he'll be back for dinner," Alfred continued on, "Master Tim was back in school, finishing a few of his coursework before the semester's end. Master Damian, on the other hand, was resting in his room with Titus and Pennyworth," he casually threw off the cat's nickname.

Bruce expected himself to laugh a bit, perhaps joke something about the cat, since it was a known fact that Alfred is a little bit irritated that Damian would name his pet in Alfred's name, and it became an easy target to poke at Alfred, the human.

But Bruce doesn't feel like so. The gap in him doesn't permit him so. He swallowed the last piece of bread in his plate and said his thanks.

Alfred frowned, but Bruce pretended as if he was blind to it.

"I'll be in my room," Bruce said, standing up. He was glad that Alfred didn't say anything to stopped him. He feared that if he so, Bruce wouldn't be able to stop the tears from flowing down his eyes.

He had never hated himself so much like he does today. He had the most perfect life that many people could only dream of. He grew up in wealth, a huge roof above his head, a father-like figure who cooks him the best of dishes and takes care of him, and four sons who loves him enough to stay by his side.

And what did he choose instead?

To embrace his grief and misery. To create a mask of indifference. And to fight for an unattainable justice.

And in doing so, he had damned his family to a life of violence and chaos.

The weight of the Batman lays heavily on his shoulders.

And for the first time in his life, instead of choosing to shoulder on and carry it, a penance for his mistakes, he wished he could be freed from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie


	38. Under the Red Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's turn to process the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

The roaring of the motorcycle came to a halt. Jason removed the helmet clasped on his head. The garage door of the Cave automatically closed just as he removed his key from the vehicle. He looked around the Batcave, the 'main base' as they've formally named it in their collective heads, hoping to see his little brother hunched over the huge main computer again.

Tim has been living off caffeine and codes, trying to find a perceived loophole in the main frame. Last night's events had rattled him too much, paranoid even. Even though the main criminals were already in custody, Dick still doubled his efforts roaming the streets of Gotham, ears wide, as if last night was a start of a series of bombings.

But it wasn't. Jason was sure of that. Last night's bombing was merely an act of boredom of Joker (was is expected of a madman?), seeing as the Batman hasn't been in patrol for some time now.

That, Jason wasn't sure of.

Bruce had gone off the streets way before the explosion, before—he had tried to drown himself in his own room, before the Christmas that they never got to properly celebrate. So Jason was uncertain what had really caused his father to stop patrolling Gotham. Bruce has always been a repeating mantra of justice, of protecting the innocent—so where had all those disappear?

What had stopped his father from taking on the cowl?

Jason shook his head. It wasn't his job to babysit the old man. Yes, he _tolerates_ (at least that's the excuse that he says to himself) being around the old man and the little brats, but that doesn't mean that he wants to actively participate in their 'family' experiment.

He grunted subconsciously, of course, even in his own head he couldn't lie to himself.

The truth was plain and simple. Though he wouldn't say it out loud, not even if he's hanging for life at the top of the Wayne Tower.

He _loves_ them. That's why as much as he doesn't want to get involve, he couldn't help himself but to wonder—to worry.

He went first to the dinner area, his stomach protesting its lack of content. He had been busy dusting a bit of his apartment, as he had been away from the place for some time now. Dick had fretted over his injuries, as if they're life threatening. He and Damian weren't even _that_ close to the explosion. The building was a block or two on their right side, but Jason was a bit distracted over his sappy talk with his little brother and the explosion rattled his mind. As the building exploded, he swerved the motorcycle to the left on instinct and promptly lost balance.

All they got were minor scraps on their arms and thighs, not even deep or scarring since they're wearing full armor, so it's nothing compared to the other injuries they sustained when fighting Gotham's wildest villains.

As if they're sharing the same genes, he and Damian had grunted, rolled their eyes, and sulked the whole time Dick was fretting over their injuries. Alfred didn't even bother helping with their scraps, and merely stood a few feet away, hiding his amusement.

Of course their injuries were nothing compared to the ones that their stupid, air-headed, father had gotten after going out in his night civilian clothes! Really! Jason wanted to throw back all those times that Bruce had called him reckless right in his stupid face. Who was the one who came out in a possible terrorist situation with nothing but night clothes, huh? And drove in a motorcycle no less! Honestly, if Dick hasn't found him in that exact time—

He shuddered at the implication of that line. If Dick hadn't been there when the abandoned warehouse exploded, would—would his father survived? As Dick has told them afterwards, when they brought in Bruce's injured body back home, his father was almost ready to charge inside the warehouse unprotected, with nothing but his clothes and slippers. And that was supposedly after their father had heard over the intercom that _it might be a trap._

So who was the idiot now, Bruce?

He couldn't help it. Everything just leads back to anger for him. Anger—the only emotion he could understood well, a familiar feeling in his chest.

After all, wasn't anger the first thing he felt upon being resurrected?

"Master Jason," he could hear the shock in Alfred's almost monotonous tone, as if he hadn't expected Jason to appear in the Manor's dining area.

"Ah, I'm back?" he usually sneak inside to his room or the kitchen area, and pretended as if he has been there the whole day, so he's quiet unsure what to say actually when you first stepped into the house.

The embarrassment caused Alfred to smile. "Welcome back, Master Jason." He offered.

Jason hid his flushed face with his right hand, pretending to scratch a dirt in his face. "Ah, okay."

"Dinner was ready," Alfred said, walking away to grab another plate to set on the table.

Jason nodded and took a seat. He noticed that his brothers weren't around yet. "Dick isn't back yet?"

Alfred nodded, putting pieces of his specialty in Jason's plate. "Master Tim was resting in his room, the same as Master Damian."

Jason hummed, "Thanks," he said as he took a bite of the dish. Predictably, Alfred's cooking tasted divine. He pushed the worry at the back of his head right now, he'll worry later.

And that worry he did.

Alfred had told him that Bruce was still on his bed and had forgone eating dinner. He had also woke up late. Bruce—his workaholic father had woken up in the afternoon. "It's because of last night," Alfred told him, in a solemn tone. "It—brought back memories of that night."

 _That_ night. The night that Jason died in Joker's twisted hands. "Ah," Jason was left speechless. He knew that Bruce had mourned him, Alfred had assured him that he did, but there's still a part of him that doesn't believe his father cared that much about him, apparently cared too much to be affected by something as mundane as an abandoned warehouse exploding.

He had built his image, his persona, with the anger and betrayal he had felt when he thought that Bruce didn't even care enough to mourn him. _The Red Hood_ was born out his hurt, his feelings of being tossed aside like a broken toy. Red Hood was the symbol of the forgotten son.

So when Jason was faced with the possibility that it had all been a misunderstanding, was like a stab on his chest, an attempt to rip away the mask he built for himself. And as much as he wants to lash out like a wounded animal, he couldn't. Because when he had come to know of that, it was only through after his father's attempted suicide.

_The shadow casted by the slightly ajar door looked daunting in his eyes._

It was like a repeat of that night. The room inside—his father's room was casted in shadows, the light from the hall peaking merely through a crack on the slightly ajar door. Jason felt his pulse quickening, he clenches his fist subconsciously. Adrenaline punching through his veins. His throat filling up with a need to scream—to call for help.

Was it happening again?

He pushed the door open, using only a slight force, he doesn't know if he had enough strength. It was as if the shadows were sucking the life out of him. Eyes wide, he searched for _any_ sign of life in the darkened room.

The huge window casted a soft light from the moon's reflection in the room, giving a glim to his father's bed. He walked slowly towards it, wanted to confirm in his eyes that his father was safe—and not lying with blood on his hands, or worse—

_He took a tentative step, then another, and another as he walked closely to the living room. There he saw his mother, sleeping. Empty bottles laid on the floor, some of liquor, some of her medicines. They were scattered around her._

Jason stood by his father's side. He kneeled beside the bed, ears reaching to hear his father's soft snores. He's alive.

His father is alive.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breathe.

That's fine, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave a comment! <3 
> 
> Let me know what you think. ^^


	39. Fury is the color Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Jason-centric chapter. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

For once Jason wished that Alfred could lie.

He was sitting in the dining area, a glass of milk by his side, and a heavy breakfast laid in front of him. The bacon's aroma was such a welcoming smell on his nose. He smiled as he savor each taste of food in his platter. His pseudo-grandfather has true talent in the kitchen. Maybe he should asks for lessons? After all, all he could live off when he was in his apartment were cup noodles and boiled eggs.

"Master Bruce," there was a slight pain in Alfred's voice.

Jason, fearing for the worse, whipped his head at the door.

He saw his father, dressed in his night attire, walking slightly unsteadily towards the dining table. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth slightly parted. His footing was unsteady, as if his body were moving on its own and there was no coordination from his mind. His gaze were straight, yet it looks as if he's not really seeing what's in front of him.

Before Jason could even think of standing from where he sat, Alfred were already by his father's side. His hand were steady holding on Bruce's arm, as if his father was a blind man, gently maneuvering him towards the nearest seat on the table. Bruce settled in on his seat, but his expression doesn't change.

Jason doubt his father even realized that he had already reached the dining area. He turned towards Alfred and frowned when he noticed how seemingly unperturbed Alfred was with the whole thing.

It was the same emotion he wore when Alfred found Jason with the dying body of Bruce, after he had pulled out his father from the bathtub. It was disturbing, how Alfred seemed familiar with the catatonic state of Bruce, how easily it seems for him to accept Bruce's mental state, recognize it for what it was, and maneuver himself accordingly.

Jason hated it.

He looked back towards his father, the one that he had admired ever since the man offered him a warm bath when he was merely an idiotic yet brave child trying to steal the Batman's tires. Clothed with his black cape, sharped almost steel armor, and the Bat cowl, Bruce looked regal, a true Knight of Gotham. Add to that the menacing look that Batman wore proudly, Bruce had looked impenetrable, undefeated, and downright frightening.

This time, however, Bruce looked more like a broken man—hopeless, empty. He looked like shell toy devoid of its batteries and appeal.

And it's scaring Jason. So much that he wanted to rattle the old man until he could see reason, until he would go back to that uncaring man—anything is better than _this._

"I'm done," he didn't even bother looking at Alfred who was busy serving and pushing small amounts of food in his father's plate. He looked so much like he's ten seconds away from holding Bruce's spoon himself and force feeding that unresponsive man.

He just—he can't see this right now. He doesn't want to.

He stood up and took his plate and glass and gently placed it on the kitchen counter. Without a backward glance, he walked towards the hall and disappeared into the second floor.

As soon as he's sure that there wasn't anyone around, Jason gently pushed the door opened and squeezed himself inside. He looked around, and at first glance it seemed like there's nothing amiss.

But isn't that what he had thought of that time too? The room was just as quiet as that time too, the bed looked undisturbed, like there wasn't anyone who had occupied it last night. He looked to the right, sure enough, the bathroom door was slightly ajar.

He turned back and moved towards the bedside table. He meticulously and with practiced movement, searched thoroughly in the cabinet, pushing aside scraps of paper and pens, and other boring things.

After that, he went towards the computer table. He picked the lock at the bottom drawer and searched through it as well. Even between the stacks of papers stored in the upper cabinet, he searched between them, and searched through the pencil holder. He left no part undisturbed, opting to be thorough with his search.

Next he went towards the bathroom. He opened up the cabinets in it, searched through the bottles of shampoo, soaps, and even toothbrushes. When he saw that it was empty, he went towards the closet. He scanned every clothe, every pocket, every drawer that he could find.

He looked around the room and searched through the walls, looking at any possible secret location that there might be.

His heart was hammering against his chest, fearing that he'll find it, that in one of his searchs, he'll find that bottle of pills, a secret medicine, a fall safe, something that his father could use _again_ to kill himself. He was panicking, after seeing his father, he was sure that it was only a matter of minutes before Bruce would try _again._

And he couldn't—he couldn't go through that again.

The fear turned to anger.

How can his father even _think_ of doing that again? After everything that they had been through? After seeing hearing Jason's pleas, after apologizing to Tim, Damian, and Dick? He had told them that it was merely 'an accident', that he hadn't meant to take those pills and promptly drown himself in the bathtub.

And Jason had tried to convince himself of the lie. Forcefully shut down the rational part of his brain and let himself believe in what Bruce was saying.

Yes, it's an _accident._ So there's no danger of it happening again.

But now, after seeing Bruce earlier, Jason was pretty sure it's just a matter of _when._

Jason hasn't ever wanted to kill a man so much as he does this moment.

Yeah, sure the Black Mask pissed him off to the point that he threw a grenade launcher right at his fucking face. And Dick irritated him so much before that he almost broke his brother's legs. But he had never hated anyone as much as he hated the madman right now.

 _Everything_ was that man's fault. He had took Jason's mother away from him before and now he's taking his father.

He was the sole cause of everything wrong with Jason's life. He was the one who trapped Jason in a warehouse before, set off a bomb and killed him. And now he's the one who planned the bombing in the city—all because he 'misses' the Big Bat roaming at night.

And he's the one that pushed Bruce into this state. If it weren't for Joker's silly games, Bruce wouldn't have been pushed into this, hell maybe he wouldn't even be depressed, maybe he wouldn't even tried to kill himself.

Joker had already destroyed Jason's life once, he's not letting him destroy his second life again.

Jason would protect his father. Even if that means that he'll have to disobey him and finally put a bullet in that madman's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is going to be I N T E N S E   
> so kindly prepare yourself hehe :)


	40. On Your Hands Be It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason faces the Joker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, do consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

Anger is the first emotion Jason felt when he took his first breath. He was drowning in the Lazarus Pit, he had thrashed from the arms that held him, and pushed himself away from the burning green liquid surrounding him.

It was anger that he was most familiar with. An emotion that he could understand so well.

And so he let that anger control him. The burn of the Lazarus Pit fueling him.

He was perched on one of the trees surrounding the Arkham Asylum. He had sought one of Joker's goons early that night, and punched the man so hard he spluttered blood and the plan. Jason was sure that the Joker would one way or another try to break out of Arkham, just as he did almost every time he was apprehended.

However, Jason would make sure that this will be the last time the madman could ever do so.

He saw the backdoor of the hospital open. And a man dressed in a nurse uniform walked out pushing what seemed to be a black trash bin. His face was hidden by his nurse's hat. But the small smile gave him away.

Jason let the man walk a few steps away. He let him feel as if he had outsmarted everyone else. He let the man opened the gate and walked casually away from his prison. When he was near the trees from where Jason was hiding, he jumped down and stood in front of the man. His gun, loaded with real bullets, unloaded from his belt.

"Going somewhere, gentleman?" Jason mocked, removing loading the gun. His voice was muffled by the red helmet he was wearing.

A laughter. So typical of the madman. "Missed me so much, little red?"

Jason rolled his eyes. _Little_? He's at least two feet taller than this man. "Forgot to give you something before," he said before aiming the gun right at Joker's face.

Joker didn't even flinch. He merely smiled, "Oh? Is that about the little explosions? You know I didn't mean that," he sarcastically said, feigning innocence, "I was merely—lighting up the sky to welcome the Bat."

Jason gritted his teeth, his hand shook with desire to punch the man in front of him. "What's with your fucking obsession with the Bat?!"

"You wouldn't understand," Joker said with a frown, "It's something intimate between the two of us."

And like match lit, Jason's anger burned brighter. With a feral growl, he ran forward and assaulted the Joker with his gun, using much force as he slapped the bottom of his gun to the man's face—breaking his nose.

Joker, who hasn't anticipated the assault, fell down on the ground. He clutched his bleeding nose and laughed at anger of his opponent. "Jealous?"

Jason couldn't hear anything aside from the rush of blood in his ears. He let out another animalistic growl as he foregone a quick assassination of the man and instead decided on letting the madman fell the pain he had been through. The pain he had felt when Joker was assaulting him with a crowbar, he wanted to double that. He wanted the man to feel what he had suffered through.

But he would achieve that through his bare hands. He clenched his fists, used his weight to trap the Joker's body between his thighs. He sat on top of the madman and rained his fists on his face. A punch turned to two turned to three—he punched every inch that he could. All the while, the madman laugh in between his gurgle, blood was oozing from every hole on his face—eyes, nose, mouth. Joker was beyond recognizable.

There was a faint whisper in his ears, saying that he should stop before he managed to kill the Joker. Before he becomes another criminal—nothing better than them.

_"I could forgive you for not mourning me. Hell, I've even expected that. But tell me, why in gods name is this man still alive!"_

Joker was heaving, his mouth filled with blood. He was still laughing, but it sounded pained, even forced. He could barely open his eyes, too much bruises adoring his otherwise frightening face.

Jason was struggling. His hands gripping tightly around the Joker's neck. If he could only apply even a slight pressure, he could easily break the madman's neck.

But he didn't. He could feel his arms shaking. His eyes were watering.

This. _This_ is the moment that he had longed dreamt of. The Joker at his mercy. There was no one stopping him, no one was around to witness the slay of a madman. And yet, Jason couldn't bring his hands to tighten around the neck of the enemy.

It will be too easy, like a gift of the Heavens. It'll be too easy to tighten his grip on the man's neck and just—snap it. Then everything would end, everything would get better. The man wouldn't be there to torment Jason's family anymore. Gotham could finally find peace at night, knowing that the Joker is dead.

But why the hell is his hands shaking? Why couldn't he put pressure on the man's neck?!

_"It'll be too easy."_

Joker's death may have been long overdue, but should it be on Jason's hand? Would Joker's death guarantee that his father would get better? Would it help his father? Or would it merely push his father closer to the brink—blaming himself, thinking that he had failed to prevent his son from becoming a criminal?

Joker's breathe were getting labored. Jason's weight over his chest was crushing him, add to that the broken nose and battered face, he couldn't get enough oxygen to supply his body.

The Joker had took Jason's old life away from him—but Jason would be damned if he'll give his second life to him too.

He slowly lifted his body away from the man, standing up before the battered body of the criminal. He turned his back and walked away.

His hands dripping with the blood of a madman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a LOT of feels. Kindly prepare yourself. ^^


	41. Father and Son I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by Twenty One Pilot's Song, "Johnny Boy".
> 
> Get up, Johnny boy, get up, Johnny boy  
> Get up 'cause the world has left you lying on the ground  
> You're my pride and joy  
> You're my pride and joy
> 
> Get up, Johnny boy, because we all need you now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried while writing this. I hope you will too :')
> 
> I realized I posted two separate Jason-centric chapter in both of my stories lol. Is this Jason Todd Day?! XD

It was past midnight when Jason went back to the Manor. He opened the front door, fully expecting that the hall would be as silent as the night.

He was half-surprised to see Alfred waiting by the door. "Master Jason," he gave a brief nod. "I heard your motor outside," he explained.

Jason merely nodded at him. His shoulders were hunched, as if he was carrying a weight on his back. He pulled off his helmet and placed it on the closest table he could find. Alfred was asking him, walking beside him. But Jason merely shook his head, communicating through his tired eyes that he wished to be alone.

Alfred, as expected, understood fully. He bid a farewell before walking back towards his quarter.

Jason closed his eyes. A bigger part of him was screaming that he should turn back now, that he had done enough for tonight. What should he even tell his father?

But Jason persisted. His worry over his father weighting more than the awkwardness he feared.

He walked quietly towards his father's room, each step felt heavy, as if there were shackles on his feet preventing him from going forward.

He opened the door to his father's room. Silence welcomed him. The room was illuminated by the moon's light over the bedside window.

He looked over at the bed, and saw Bruce's form—he was lying on his side, facing the bedroom window.

Jason took a step, closer and closer, until he was by his father's feet. He looked down and saw how his Father's eyes were as glazed and unfocused as they were early morning. If before Bruce would've caught him and asked why he was there, now his father didn't even seem to notice that there was someone else in his room. Bruce doesn't even seem that he was aware of anything at all.

Jason swallowed down the whimper that wanted to escape from his lips. He _hated_ seeing his father like this.

He walked closer and kneeled in front of his father, just as he did the night before.

It seemed as if almost half an hour had passed before Bruce's distant eyes blinked in recognition. "J—ason?" his voice shook, as if he wasn't aware that he had opened his lips and spoke.

Jason gave a soft smile, "I'm here, dad."

That soft voice rattled Bruce. A moment. And he started crying, tears flowing freely from his eyes to the soft sheet. It was too much like his dreams.

_The night after the explosion. After he had laid Jason's burned and battered body on the cold table in the Batcave. He had spent an hour just looking at his son's body, hoping futilely that his chest would suddenly move, that his son would suddenly breathe._

_But he didn't. Jason remained dead._

_Alfred had to force him to go back to his room. Bruce was moving on auto-pilot. Alfred helped remove his cape and his armor, before laying down on the bed. He brushed a bit of his hair, like he did before when Bruce was eight, when his parents had died on that alley._

_But Alfred did this, left him alone to his room. To his thoughts._

_Bruce eyes remained on the bedroom window, the huge glass reflecting the bright moon's light._

_He blinked once, and Jason's fourteen years old shadow appeared in front of him. He was dressed in his Robin's uniform, but this one wasn't burnt nor torn. Jason had a soft smile on his face._

_"I'm here, dad."_

Bruce's body shook as sobs escaped his lips. It was happening again. The memory of his son tormenting him before his sleep. Reminding him of what he had failed to do, what he had failed to save.

What use of his cowl if he couldn't save the person most important of him?

What is the use of Batman if he couldn't protect his own son?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." An endless apology, empty—mere words that can't turn back time, can't bring back the dead, can't erase the failure of his. "I'm sorry," why couldn't Bruce learn? There was no point in apologizing!

_You had failed your son! You killed him! Sorry won't bring him back!_

Every apology that escaped from his father's mouth was like a stab to his heart. Jason had to swallow his own sob. His father's voice sounded so broken, so torn, so far from the stern voice he had heard before.

He knew from his father's actions that he had truly regret that he had failed to save Jason from the Joker. Jason _knows_ that, as he had said before, there was a part of him that even anticipated that he would be tossed and replaced when he had died, because he doesn't really hold much worth in this family. He's not the bloodson, he's a charity case.

But to hear Bruce's apologies from his own lips, with his cracked voice, to see Bruce's tears for _him,_ Jason couldn't even describe the emotions flowing inside of him.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—" like a sinner in front of God, Bruce didn't stop apologizing. A mantra that he kept whispering, again and again, as if the words were the only thing keeping him alive—and not uttering it would perish him.

But Jason couldn't bear to hear it any longer. He couldn't bear to look at his father and see a broken man. Not when he knew that he could do something about it.

He hadn't even realized that he had been crying. When he opened his mouth to speak, he tastes his own tears.

"I forgave you. Have been for a long time."

The words shook Bruce out from his hallucination. He gasped. He blinked away his tears and was surprised to see Jason—not his fourteen year old son in his Robin's uniform—but his twenty-three year old man, in his red hood attire. 

The Batman symbol painted red. 

"J—jason?" He couldn't believe that his son would be in front of him. That he wasn't dreaming. 

Bruce's hand moved on its own, before he could think, his hand were already on Jason's face, caressing it, feeling the softness of his son's cheeks and the tears. 

He was warm. His son was alive. And he's in front of him. 

Bruce's first instinct was to wipe away his son's tears. Why is he crying?

Jason closed his eyes and held on Bruce's hand, leaning to it. His father was alive. He was breathing in front of him.

He closed his eyes.

_Please, don't hurt yourself anymore._

"I forgave you," he whispered, feeling the warmth of his father's hand.

_So please don't hurt yourself anymore._

Bruce closed his eyes. 

He leaned his son closer to him and placed a kiss on Jason's forehead. 

He may not fully forgive himself for hurting and killing his own son, but for Jason's sake, he will try. 

"Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! so the healing is officially starting right now :')  
> that doesn't mean that all the angst will stop :(
> 
> As always,  
> If you like my work, kindly consider buying me a coffee! <3  
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie


	42. Facing the Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first steps are always the hardest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, kindly consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

How do people continue living? How do people wake up every morning and decide that they could live another day? How could other people not think of the uselessness there is of breathing? How could they not feel the suffering just by existing?

Bruce has always wondered why he even has to live. Why God had chosen him to survive instead of his parents. Why God had punished him for a sin he wasn't even aware of doing.

Ever since he had tried doing it, he had wondered that specific question. What is the point of living—of suffering through the hellish tortures of life—when in the end we would just die anyway? What's the point of prolonging the inevitable? What's the point of tiring yourself out when in the end you'll die anyway?

For a while, those thoughts had stopped demanding audience. For a while, his mind were quiet. The simplicity of putting on the cowl and forgetting those questions were addictive—which is why he had grown complicit of being the Bat.

He'll say that Gotham _needs_ him, that it was his desire to protect the innocence in the night, that pushes him to wear the cowl.

But it was actually his selfishness, it was his desire to silence his mind, to ease the questions and push them until he could pretend that he was satisfied with the tragedy of his life.

The cowl has been his metaphorical protection against his mind.

And now that he's idle, now that he isn't wearing it, his mind had became rampant, thoughts that was previously silenced had come haunting.

How....how does it stop hurting?

Bruce doesn't want to admit it—but he's currently hiding in his room. _Hiding_ being the key word there. Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with it, but he had found that his four sons now litter around the Manor, more so that they did when he was shot at Christmas.

Perhaps the bombing has also rattled them? Maybe they are walking around the house, seemingly intent on being with Bruce whenever he was outside the room—for _something._ He doesn't have a good idea what it was they needed, but he was guessing that they're walking around into asking him for some help with the investigation.

Much as he wants to, he couldn't.

His hands shook on its own.

He couldn't face the night's events without getting bombarded with the memories of Jason's death, with the nightmares he had of his sons _actually_ dying. He couldn't see the ruins of those roads and buildings without being crimped with panic. Pathetic really, especially for someone that should've been a veteran in crime such as he.

The case was a closed one, though, thankfully so. Dick has assured him, in passing, when Bruce went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He could feel eyes watching him all the while. And it didn't leave until he had locked himself in his room.

Bruce gazed at the vast open land surrounding the Manor from his bedroom window. He wondered if he should just confront his sons directly and asked them what they are trying to _ask_ of him, just so he could freely wander away from his room without feeling like a prey and there's four predators eyeing his movement.

Isn't Damian the only son that hadn't left the Manor? Haven't his three older sons already bid goodbye and screamed independence when they left to live in their own apartments? So why is the Manor filled once more of people?

It's not like he doesn't want his sons to be back home, don't get him wrong—it's just that, it somehow felt suffocating to have people around him. Perhaps he just wasn't used to have people around. So used to his isolation, that the mere fact of his sons surrounding him became too much.

What kind of father is he?

He was too lost in his thoughts once again that it was too late for him to notice that his door was already opened. He looked to the direction and couldn't hide the gasp from escaping him. Somewhat, his sons were now inside his room, loitering around.

Bruce couldn't even form a simple question such as why are they doing in his room?

"Hi Bruce!" Dick was the first to break the silence, though his cheerfulness sounded so strained, forced even.

Damian rolled his eyes from where he stood beside the oldest, his arms crossed.

There was a heavy silence surrounding him, as if each of them were afraid to utter a word, to set in motion _something._ "I—uhm, we—" Dick motioned around, pointing at his brothers.

Jason outright flinched, surprised that Dick was dragging him down with his embarrassment. He looked as if he wanted to protest but instead shook his head and leaned at the other wall. Tim was the one merely standing lost in front of the door, hesitating to go inside but doesn't want to stay outside.

"I actually don't know why we're doing this but—uhm—" It was one of the moments were Dick sounded so unsure, so devoid of his usual bravado.

Bruce now scrapped the idea that his sons will be asking him to solve some crime or something. However, now he truly has no idea what his sons are camping in his room for.

"You are sick father, are you not?" Damian asked, bluntly, not wanting to go around in circles anymore. It was better to be straightforward, yes? They will be just wasting his father's rest from being too vague and to embarrassed like Dick wanted.

Bruce was taken aback by Damian's words. He doesn't feel feverish, so what it is that his son was saying?

"You have been for a while, Alfred had said so," Damian continued, "And it is okay, sickness is natural, is it not?" Ah, the innocence of youth, it was surprising how Damian looked so young at that time. "And to cure something, you must take medicines for it," he frowned, his courage staggering, he looked down on the ground, not wanting to continue but knew that he had to, "but because of _that_ time, they said that it might not be a good thing to do so."

Ah, Bruce now understood what Damian was referring to.

The room was still silent. Damian seemed to be the only who has enough courage to speak for their thoughts.

Suddenly, Damian looked up, his eyes flaring with determination, "so we thought that maybe you could do the talking—" he paused, as if just processing his words, "ah—Jason said that it must be talking with a stranger—but it should be effective."

Jason's gaze were up in the ceiling, praying to any deity listening for them to just strike him down with lightning and make him disappear. There was a faint flush in his face, now Dick will come to know of the little chat he had with Damian.

Bruce was just as silent as he had earlier.

"So what we're really here for—is that we are asking if you could, father," Damian said, transforming to a shy child again. He isn't sure if it should even be his place to ask. But when they had questioned Alfred about it, he had confessed that Bruce has denied him request. And shyly did he ask if maybe _they_ could.

_"Master Bruce might consider it if it comes from another's voice. I'm afraid he might feel pestered if it were to come from an old man like me."_

Bruce's first instinct was to physically recoil, maybe even to shout at his kid for demanding something that big out of him. He wanted to explain to them how he had tried those things before—medicines, therapy, exercising—every little trick that they had in the book.

But _none_ of it helped. He's still hurting.

So what was the point of trying? When it the end he'll end up falling anyway?

But Bruce doesn't want to burden his sons of that, especially his youngest Damian. He walked forward and brushed his youngest's head, "I'll think about it." He repeated the same words he told Alfred a while ago.

 _I'll think about it_ —just another excuse that really meant I'll prolong the time until you'll ask again.

Damian gave a soft smile. "Okay."

Bruce looked at the others and it pained him how his sons felt as if a heavy burden was lifted from their shoulders, as if they had solved something.

He felt even shittier for lying.

He looked over at Jason and saw how his son was slightly beaming at him, happy for a big decision that he thought his father had done, thankful that their little scheme was successful, that his father would finally stop hurting himself.

And that made Bruce pause.

Maybe.....

Maybe he could try—for _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.....should I jump into healing....or more hurt? :)
> 
> Thank you again for sticking to this story! :) 50k words!! I've reached 50k words! I thought that the longest fic I'll ever write in my lifetime is 10k. Man, what a twist!


	43. Bruce Goes To Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as the title says. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first of all, I want to apologize for the delay. I was trying to fix the draft timeline of this story. There is a misplaced scene that I just couldn't connect with the overall story structure. So, as a typical move, I procrastinated lol
> 
> Thank you for the opinions you gave last chapter! I've now decided to put the scene in the story. It's a super emotional scene. A big challenge to write. ^^

Alfred was the one who accompanied him to the therapist. Just as he did when Bruce was only eight. Though, Bruce doubts that it would make much of a difference.

After all, if it hadn't helped him before, what would be the chances of it helping him now?

Bruce's eyes were strained towards the buildings they passed by. The ride was silent, he could feel Alfred's eyes occasionally shifting to him in the backseat, but Bruce ignored him. A big part of him truly didn't want to continue this charade, to continue pretending as if he'll truly consider going to therapy.

However, he couldn't forget the look that his sons have given him, the look of hope, of thinking that they've done something _for_ their pathetic father—that Bruce couldn't just shrug of. As much as his sons wanted him to be proud of them, Bruce also wants to be deserving of his sons.

And so he pushed himself. He had asked, albeit with a lot of pressure on his part, Alfred to schedule him a therapy—"someone I haven't gone to before," he had said, he couldn't even look in the eyes of his pseudo-father, preferring to pretend as if he wasn't done eating his food.

He wasn't able to see Alfred's tears, but he did hear his quiet reply, "Of course, Master Bruce."

* * *

Dr. Martin is almost around Bruce's age, four to five years older, Bruce gathered. His clinic looked less of a clinic and more of a living area. There was a huge bookshelf on the side, and a huge window of the other. In the middle were two seats, sofa-like and soft cushions. And a coffee table between them.

Alfred left him as soon as Bruce and the therapist had been introduced.

Bruce almost memorized the questions that the therapist had asked, it was always the same. Dr. Martin's voice was soft, melodic, and soothing, everything that one might expect from a professional therapist.

Yet, Bruce was still a guarded person. He answered tentatively, kept his voice and tone almost monotonous and answered the therapist's inquiries as if he's spitting encyclopedia facts.

When the therapist asked him the personal ones, "How are you right now?", Bruce's throat closed, his mouth slipped shut. His eyes remained straight, his body rigid.

He doesn't answer.

The therapist was a very patient man, he remained quiet, open to any noise that may come out of his patient.

But Bruce remained quiet. Unable to speak. It's like the words have escaped him, his mind shut on its own. The emotions that were rampant before seemingly disappeared at that moment. He _couldn't_ feel anything—and as if suffering a memory lapse, he couldn't remember anything that might have at least trigger a reaction out of him.

He stayed seated, quiet.

And just like that, their session was over.

* * *

Despite not actually answering anything, or progressing, Bruce kept on coming to the therapy session. It's more of maintaining an appearance to his sons, of pretending that he was actually doing something to help himself.

When in actuality, he liked it more when he's drowning in his misery.

It's so hard to let go of something so familiar, of something that easily flows through him like water. He was so used to feeling hurt, of feeling that emptiness in his chest, that—as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he's _scared_ of changing that, of filling it up with _something_ or finding out why it was there in the first place.

In his pain, Bruce felt at home.

In his misery, Bruce felt like himself.

What would he be without this tragedy he carved with his hands?

He doesn't know the answer. He doesn't _want_ to know.

Perhaps, Bruce wasn't the first patient that responded that why, or perhaps it was because the therapist was paid to speak—but he just _doesn't stop._ That if the therapist had spoken in the most comforting tone, most peaceful, and least judgmental—Bruce felt irked by it. As if the words were pins that is trying to puncture him.

It was a Thursday now. The second week of Bruce and the therapist pretending as if they're going somewhere with the session and not just wasting the time in nothing but silence.

A small part of Bruce commended the therapist for being incredibly patient with him, while a larger part of him hopes that some kind of accident will befall on the other man so he wouldn't be force to sit in this chair and listen to the suffocating silence.

How horrible of him, to wish something bad for an innocent man.

And people calls him a hero—what a joke.

Bruce's life is one whole joke.

"Daddy?" the small child's voice rattled Bruce out from whatever hellhole his mind had taken him.

"Oh dear," Dr. Martin whispered before standing up to meet his—five year old child. The child was on his tiptoes, as he held on the doorknob. "What are you doing here sweetie?" Dr. Martin asked, kneeling in front of his son.

"Teacher said that it was best friend's day! And you're my best friend. And we have to celebrate!" the child said, pouting, and acting utterly disappointed at his father.

Dr. Martin laughed, "Daddy forgot. I'm sorry."

Bruce coughed from where he sat, the scene in front of him shook something in him that he's not willing to name. He stood up and offered to pay for the session. "I could leave early," he said, not wanting to intrude on the father-and-son moment in front of him.

Dr. Martin shook his head and said that it was okay, "No, we still have almost an hour in our session—"

Bruce shook his head, "It's okay, I'll still pay full."

Dr. Martin frowned, he sighed, "I know you would, but—"

The child looked past his father and walked closer to Bruce. He stopped in front of him and looked up, staring right at the man in front of him.

Even with the height difference, not to include the age gap, Bruce felt scrutinized and a bit afraid of the child. It's like the younger was seeing through him. He tried to give a soft smile, the small kid reminded him so much of young Jason—the way that he was so brave, so unapologetically courageous in front of threats bigger than him.

His heart clenched on the memory.

How lucky this child is, not to be associated with a poison like Bruce.

"Are you here to get help from Daddy?" the child said, tilting his head in wonder.

Bruce gave a short nod. "I—I am."

The child grinned wide. "Daddy helps a lot of people!" The child, sounding so proud of his father.

Bruce's heart felt as if someone was tearing it from its veins. "Does he?" he could fear tears in his eyes, but he blinked them away—well, tried to.

"He's a hero!"

Bruce choked on his own spit.

Jealousy—that is the feeling that he felt that moment. He couldn't help but to ache at the adoration that the child is displaying for his father.

Was it the same way that his sons think of him? Do they look up at him? Do they also think that Bruce—Batman— _Bruce_ is a hero?

Even if that's the case, wouldn't it be selfish of him? To ask for an adoration that he doesn't deserve.

_Haven't you forgotten Bruce? You destroyed their future._

Bruce closed his eyes, the world swirled around him. But he kept still. He took a deep breathe and hopefully when he opened his eyes again, there wouldn't be tears in it.

Dr. Martin immediately came by his son's side, "Come on, Mic," he called, "This little guy really has ab big mouth, don't he?" he looked as if he understood what Bruce was feeling and was trying to remove his patient's mind from collapsing on its own.

"It's the truth!" his son protested, feeling attacked all of a sudden, "Michael doesn't lie!"

Bruce couldn't stop the small smile from appearing. Now the small kid reminded him of Damian's stubbornness.

"Okay, okay," Dr. Martin already looked defeated, "why don't you go with uncle outside—" Bruce looked at the door and sure enough, a man was standing there, looking embarrassed and uncertain, like he wants to go in and drag the child but is too polite to intrude, "I'll meet you in a moment."

Unexpectedly, the child answered with a polite, "Okay." A striking contrast to his stubbornness earlier.

Now, Bruce couldn't help but remember Tim's overly polite attitude when he first took him in.

"Goodbye mister!" the child said, giving a big wave to Bruce before running towards his uncle.

In his eyes, Bruce saw the shadow of young Dick, as he bid goodnight and rest his first night in the Manor.

"I'm so sorry for my kid," Dr. Martin told him.

Bruce blinked, he hadn't even notice that the door has been closed and the child has long been gone from the room. He gave a sheepish laugh, "No, you don't have to apologize."

Dr. Martin looked a bit shock.

Bruce gave a shrugged, and for the first time since their meeting, gave an honest smile, "I know the feeling well. I had four."

He and Dr. Martin shared a laugh.

For the remaining hour, Bruce enthusiastically shared his memories with his kids, a proud father to another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW, Dr. Martin and Michael won't have much role in the story, they were at first just another nameless characters in the story, but I had to give them a name just for ease of writing lol
> 
> If you like my work, kindly consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie


	44. Missing Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up for Bruce. 
> 
> Also some batfam jealousy. ^^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, kindly consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

There was a positive change in Bruce.

At least, that's what the family was getting.

It was the fourth week of Bruce going to therapy. He still felt compelled to go only in Tuesday and Thursday, even though he knew that he could go everyday if he wanted to.

Alfred, of course, was the first to notice. He noticed that Bruce wouldn't eat more than three bites of the food if there wasn't someone there with him. In the table, sharing the same meal that he was served with.

It was as if Bruce could forget his distinct lack of appetite when there was someone there to distract him.

Though, Alfred knew that it wasn't his cooking that Bruce was irked off. He wasn't a prideful man, by any means, but he understood that his pseudo-son is having an emotional crisis of his own. And as much as Alfred wants to protect him from it, he couldn't.

That doesn't mean that he'll never try though.

He was a bit ashamed for not noticing it sooner. He hated how complicit and shamefully dismissive he was with the pain of his son before. He _knew_ that Bruce had his troubles, that he was distressed, he had been there when the Waynes were taken from a young Bruce.

He _understood_ the depth of Bruce's pain, but he simply _let it be._ He had helped Bruce yes, suggesting therapy, medication, and serving him the best of his capabilities—but he should have done more!

It was a sin he had to learn to live with. A sin he had to learn to forgive himself of.

Though, he was thankful. Incredibly thankful that even with lack of help from his part, Bruce was still manage to adopt his sons, and even produce one of his own.

Oh, the grandfather in Alfred's soul sings.

And he was incredibly thankful, for Bruce's sons. Alfred had thought that he had to somewhat manipulate the others into comforting Bruce or slipping the idea that Bruce might feel more compelled to eat when he was with others, but he was pleasantly surprise that even without telling so, the boys had been hovering over their father.

As much as their vigilante schedules would allow, Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian would share the table whenever Bruce is there. Even as so far as adjusting their meals according to Bruce's.

Though, Alfred do make sure that they'll have something to eat whenever they would feel munchy.

It was truly entertaining to see the boys react like regular spoiled sons when Bruce came home with another child.

* * *

Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian were all lodging on the living area that day. Alfred had served them a huge portion of his homebake cookies, hoping that it would prevent another unnecessary battle royale from the four.

If that didn't clue them in, Alfred reminded, "And I have more in the kitchen if you still desire diabetes."

The four smiled awkwardly and thanked Alfred.

After some time, in the Afternoon, the front door of the Manor opened and in came Bruce, who had insisted on going by himself to the therapist earlier, accompanied by a five year old boy.

"Oh my," Alfred whispered, already dreading the four boys' reaction, though at the same time secretly enjoying the show.

The living room was embraced with an awkward silence—before Dick screamed, "Is this yours?!" He sounded so scandalized and panicked.

Bruce laughed the reaction off, as if it was an everyday occurrence for someone like him to bring home a child.

Though, to be fair, it is. His sons were a testament to that.

"It's Dr. Martin's son," Bruce said, "I offered to watch over his kid today since his brother wasn't at home to help," he offered an explanation.

Young Michael was looking around the huge living room, eyes swallowing every sight. He remained oblivious to the murdering aura that is coming from four very pissed off individuals munching on their cookies as if it eating them are a form of torture itself.

He then saw the cookies on the table. He tucked at Bruce's shirt and pointed at the cookies. "I want one."

Bruce laughed and led Michael to the table—

But Tim, Damian, and Jason immediately grabbed the remained cookies and swallowed them whole.

The young kid looked at the three in awe. While Bruce looked with worry.

_Are his sons okay?_

The young kid frowned. Damian smiled. Tim looked at his phone as if nothing happened. While Jason grabbed his glass and ignored the stares.

"Ah—I have baked some more," Alfred said, not wanting to disappoint the child. Even if he was forever on the sides of the Wayne boys, he couldn't help but to feed a child.

Bruce smiled. He lifted the child over in his arms and carried him towards the kitchen. "Come, Alfred will give you one."

Michael wrapped his arms around Bruce's neck and let himself be carried by the man.

Meanwhile, Damian growled threateningly and pulled out his katana. "I'm going to dice the kid—" He glared at the teasing smile that the young kid wore (though truthfully, Michael was just curious about the other boys. It was all in Damian's head).

Jason nodded, he unloaded his gun and counted the bullets.

Dick gave a tentative smile, "We're all just joking right?"

Tim reassembled his bo staff. "What?"

Dick sighed. Being the oldest was really taking a toll on him, "come on, guys he's just a kid."

Damian checked his reflection on the katana. Good, it's sharp. "Your point?"

Dick shook his head. There's really no helping them. He looked over at Tim, who was now intently typing on his phone—"And don't hack his records or something!"

"Oh come on!" Tim protested, crossing his arms and pouting.

* * *

Some time later...

Bruce was helping young Michael piece together a 500-pieces puzzle in the dining area. He knew that the puzzle was probably too complex for a child as young as Michael, but it's not like there are numerous options to choose from in the Manor. 

He had taken in his wards when they were already pass the kid's age—and they're too unique to enjoy ordinary toys. He had taken the young kid in the library before, but quickly found out that he also doesn't have any kid books for the child. He thought of just playing some old consoles that Dick and Jason used to share before—or the new ones that Dick and Damian played. 

However, remembering the selections that he had seen when he stumbled upon it—well, they're not even appropriate for Damian's age. 

So, instead, he had settled on the old puzzle piece. Looking at the young kid, squinting his eyes to put together a piece, well, it seems like for once he made the right estimation. 

He loved watching young Michael try to piece together puzzle pieces—and briefly wondered if this might be a scenario he'd have if he had known about Damian earlier. 

He shook the thought away, there's no use wondering for a day that wouldn't come. He is incredibly thankful, even if he couldn't admit it out loud, that he was still able to be with his child even if it was in his already late childhood. 

But the thought of—what if he had been in Damian's life earlier, will they ponder over a puzzle like this too? Will they eat together cookies by Alfred? How will Damian weight on his arms, how will he fit in Bruce's arms?

The table rattled. 

"Oh no!" he heard Michael gasped. 

Bruce rattled out of his thoughts and saw Jason muttering a quick apology. "Yeah—I was about to—okay," he dropped on his knee and helped Michael picked up the pieces. Bruce was about to stand up but Jason stopped him with a friendly wave, "No, I got this—there!" he put the remaining pieces on the table. "Sorry, again," he said before walking away. 

Michael pouted at the ruined puzzle in front of him. 

Bruce gave a sympathetic smile, and gently rubbed the young kid's back, "It's okay. We can start again."

Michael nodded and they began again. 

* * *

"That is incredibly cruel of you," Dick said, as he welcomed Jason from where he took an impromptu trip in the dining area. 

Damian snickered while Tim merely hummed. 

Jason shrugged his shoulders, "it was an accident." He looked everywhere but Dick's eyes though.

Damian glared at his brother, unlike Dick, he doesn't even feel remotely sorry for the kid. Though when he squinted his eyes, he noticed how Jason quickly pulled out his pocket. 

That's when he saw at least five puzzle pieces hiding in his brother's jacket. 

Jason met Damian's eyes. 

And they both shared a private smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kind comments!   
> Keep em' coming!   
> It lowkey fuels me. uwu


	45. The Replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight was Damian's turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some of you asked for the angst. And here it is. :)  
> More angst to follow. <3

Much, much later...

It was evening. Damian and his brothers are already in the dining table. Dick was helping Alfred set up the table while Jason and Tim were busy doing God-knows-what in Tim's phone. Both of his brothers looked utterly amused, a sparkle of mischief in their eyes.

Damian wanted to peak but Alfred had asked of him to fetch his father. He nodded and took a quick look at his brothers before putting his usual scowl and walking towards the living room.

It was empty. He figured that his father was in their private library.

It was also empty. He knew that his father wasn't in the cave because he and his brothers did some training exercise their (to _naturally_ release their anger over the little brat—as Dick had coerced them to).

So he figured that his father probably was in his bedroom. Perhaps he had grown tired of the little brat and had given up on the child.

Damian was hoping that the little brat was gone by the time they have finished training. He didn't check though, but figured that his father would grow tired of the stupid brat, since his father has always been the epitome of discipline—and that brat was _anything but that._

Damian had battered his own bones to be the perfection that his father would desire. Surely that stupid cretin wouldn't be worth his father's time.

So it was to his surprise when he opened his father's door—and saw the brat embraced in Bruce's arms.

His feet walked on its own, his mind halted, trying to comprehend the image that he was seeing. His feet had taken him on the right side of his father's bed, where Bruce's sturdy body shadowed the brat from the moon's light by the window.

Damian's fist clenched in anger. Irritation blooming at his chest.

How could this _imperfection_ even be allowed to enter his father's embrace? Why is this _imperfection_ allowed to exist—to be nurture by his father? Why is Bruce allowing this _imperfection_ to disgrace his side?

Damian felt utterly betrayed. Useless. Worthless. Here he was, still training his self to reach the perfection that will be worth of his father's pride.

Here he was, _replaced_ by a stupid little child.

Tears welled at his eyes, a sob suppressed in his throat.

Anger ranged through him. And the blood of Al' Ghul flared—he wants repercussion, _revenge,_ to reestablish himself as the better man, a better son. With practiced ease, he pulled the dagger hidden on his booths and attacked Michael's face, intending to slash a red scar on the child (maybe even to kill him).

But Bruce's instinct, honed with years fighting vigilantes, were fasted than Damian. In his tired state, he still managed to move his body, to cover Michael and pull the child's head closer to his chest, shielding him from the threat.

Damian stopped. His dagger a mere centimeters away from Bruce's head. His hand became soft, pulling back the dagger and hiding it in its holster.

He looked at his father, the way he had readily embraced the child and protecting him, as if he was his own son. Then he looked at Michael, safely tucked, snoring softly.

A tear escaped Damian's eyes. And he taste its bitterness on his lips.

_Is this how they felt?_

Is this how Tim had felt when Damian had taken his place? Is this how Jason had felt when Tim had taken his place? Is this how Dick had felt when Jason had taken his place?

Is that it? Was it Damian's turn now?

Is Damian being replaced? Just as his brothers before him?

A small part of him was saying that its utterly ridiculous for that motion, because for one, Michael has his own father, and he was but a five year old child, too little, too lacking to be replaced Damian.

Yet that part was silenced. Defeated by the insecurity coursing through Damian's rattled mind.

It hurts. It hurts so much. He had ridiculed, brush off Tim's feelings when he had came to know of it. He had never understood the depth of the jealousy that Jason was feeling as well.

Because Damian thought that he'll never get to that point. That he was _irreplaceable._ Because he is the Blood Son. The only one of his brothers that have the blood of Waynes running through his veins. He was the only one who could proudly claim that he was where he belong.

But was he? Was he the one in his father's arms? Or was he the enemy?

Damian closed off his emotions, his training of being an assassin kicking in.

He turned on his heels, walking away from the painful image in front of him. And he pretended to be deaf when he heard his father softly calling his name.

Damian walked pass his brothers eating dinner on the table and murmured a quick "I'm going to patrol," brushing off Dick's surprise.

He heard his brothers scrambling for an explanation but Damian rushed off towards the Cave. He need a few minutes to recompose himself. He feared that if he stayed for a second with his brothers, that he'll start spewing some stupid words.

He wasn't hopeless like that. If his father thought that he could do that to Damian, then Damian will prove him wrong. He'll do his best to scout the city tonight, to prove his father that he was still irreplaceable as his Robin.

After dawning his mask and his uniform, he took a quick exercise for his body, exerting much effort to pull on his muscles. He has to be extra vigilant tonight. No criminal will escape persecution.

His brothers had then one by one arrived in the cave. They stole a glance at him but didn't bother to ask.

Dick arrived later, he had two pieces of bread on a plate he was carrying. He silently gave it to Damian. "Here."

Damian scowled and chose to ignore it. He's not that weak. He could still fight the enemies even with an empty stomach. He's not weak.

Dick sighed. "Come on, just one? I had to carry these here you know," he jokingly said.

But Damian has no humor in him. All he had inside was anger and blood thirst. "I said I'm fine."

Dick opened his mouth, his eyes turning to his usual big-brother glare, but what he was about to say was cut off when Tim called for them.

Tim showed them a footage of the CCTV in Gotham City. And they saw the chaos happening. It were of people wearing clown mask wreaking havoc on the civilians, destroying property, and just generally being a nuisance. In the middle of it all, stood Harley Quinn.

Damian rolled his eyes. The ridiculousness of Quinn's obsession with the man. He was sure that this is all about Joker's imprisonment. Again.

_At least Joker hasn't thought of replaced Harley. At least Harley was irreplaceable._

Damian scowled at that stupid thought. Tt. Whatever.

Another footage. And it was Two Face this time. Trying to rob a bank, well, several banks. Where he got all his goons will be a mystery to them.

"Okay, two problems. One night. Great," Jason scowled over to where he was standing.

All of them agreed.

"Show of hands, who wants to deal with Harley and goons?" Tim said over to his seat.

They exchanged glances. Damian thought over. Due to his anger, his desire for maximum violence had reach top notch. He knew that Dick would probably _not_ allow him even to break a human bone so his next best pick is Jason (who will probably not bat an eye) or Tim (whom he could just ignore).

After a second, Jason raised his hand.

To everyone's surprise, Damian followed.

And so does Tim.

Dick looked shock. He clutched his chest, faking a heart attack. "Oh my god, no one wants to come with me? Am I not the favorite older brother now?" he even pretends to wipe tears.

Jason looked smug. "Suck it loser."

Damian rolled his eyes. Trust Dick to become emotional over _anything._

He was about to change side when Tim beat him to it. "I'll go with you," Tim said. He shrugged, "Doesn't really matter to me. I just want to mess with you."

Then it was Jason who pretended to be shock and made a loud gasp. "You mean I'm _not_ the favorite brother?"

Now it was Dick who had the last laugh. "HA!"

Damian rolled his eyes. "Can we do this later? On going crime here."

The others laugh and they all scrambled towards the respective vehicle. Jason ruffled Damian's hair before tossing him a helmet.

Dick and Tim went over to a different version of the batmobile. Dick looked at his brothers. His eyes met Jason, a conversation silently pass between them.

With a serious tone, Dick said, "Be careful."

Jason nodded. The last incident going through their heads.

Dick and Tim were the first to go out. While Jason and Damian followed.

_Time to prove your worth, Blood Son._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my work, kindly consider buying me a coffee! <3
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/naxxerie

**Author's Note:**

> Official story playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6LtUisvQc27ksFBkp8y49f
> 
> If you have any recommendation, just comment below :)


End file.
